Written,  in. 
Sin^  Sind  Prison 


X 


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CHARLES    E.   CHAPIN 


Charles  Ghapin's  Story 

Written  in  Sing  Sing  Prison^ 


'The  mighty  gates  of  circumstance 

Turn  on  the  smallest  hinge, 
And  oft  some  seeming  pettiest  chance 
Gives  our  life  its  after  tinge." 


With  an  Introduction  by 
Basil  King 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

XLbc   1Rnicl;etbocfter  pxces 

1920 


y 


CH-S 


Copyright,  1930 

BY 

G.   P.    PUTNAM'S   SONS 


Zo  l^tx  2ii)o  eber  iSec&on£! 
tKo  iWe  ifrom  Ufar 

•  Oh,  how  dark  and  lone  and  drear 

Will  seem  that  brighter  world  of  bliss, 
If,  while  wandering  through  each  radiant  zone, 
We  fail  to  find  the  loved  of  this." 


PUBLISHERS*  NOTE 

"The  defendant  was  indicted  on  September 
i8,  191 8,  for  murder  in  the  first  degree,  in  that 
he  had  killed  his  wife  Nellie,  with  a  pistol,  by 
shooting  her  in  the  head.  At  the  time  of  the 
killing  defendant  was,  and  for  several  years 
prior  thereto  had  been,  the  city  editor  of  the 
New  York  Evening  World.  He  is  sixty  years 
of  age.  He  and  his  wife  whom  he  killed  had 
been  married  for  thirty-nine  years,  and  the 
uncontradicted  testimony  is  to  the  effect  that 
their  relations  had  been  singularly  devoted.'* 

The  tragic  and  unusual  case  of  Charles  E. 
Chapin,  now  serving  a  term  of  life  imprison- 
ment in  Sing  Sing,  will  be  well  remembered 
by  newspaper  readers.  The  paragraph  quoted 
above  is  from  the  report  of  a  Commission 
which  passed  upon  the  sanity  of  the  defendant. 

At  the  time  of  the  tragedy  Mr.  Chapin  wrote 
a  letter  to  a  newspaper  associate  in  part  as 
follows : 


vi  Publishers*  Note 

"For  some  time  I  have  been  conscious  that 
I  am  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  breakdown.  I 
have  fought  against  it  continually,  but  the 
pains  in  my  head  grow  more  acute,  and  I 
realize  now  that  the  time  is  fast  approaching 
when  I  will  collapse  entirely.  I  dread  to  think 
of  passing  the  remainder  of  my  life  in  a  sani- 
tarium so  I  am  doing  the  only  thing  I  can  think 
of  to  escape  such  a  calamity.  I  know  how 
wrong  it  is,  but  I  cannot  go  on  suffering  as  I 
have  for  months.  It  takes  greater  courage 
than  I  possess.  I  have  tried  to  think  out 
what  is  best  to  do,  and  cannot  bear  the 
thought  of  leaving  my  wife  to  face  the  world 
alone,  so  I  have  resolved  to  take  her  with  me.*' 

The  defendant  then  went  to  Prospect  Park, 
a  revolver  in  his  pocket,  intending  to  end  his 
life.  In  a  newspaper  he  saw  the  headline, 
"Charles  Chapin  Wanted  For  Murder." 
Going  to  the  nearest  police  station,  he  gave 
himself  up. 

That,  in  brief,  is  the  story  of  the  tragedy 
which  terminated  the  career  of  the  author  of 
this  book. 


INTRODUCTION 

In  calling  the  reader's  attention  to  the  fol- 
lowing pages  it  may  be  well  to  strike  at  once 
the  personal  note  and  explain  my  acquaint- 
ance with  the  writer.  I  am  not  an  official 
visitor  at  Sing  Sing  Prison.  I  am  not  a 
philanthropist.  In  philanthropy  as  now  prac- 
ticed I  have  only  a  limited  confidence.  Had 
I  not  had  a  personal  reason  for  going  to  the 
House  of  Sorrow  I  should  have  felt  it  an 
intrusion,  almost  an  impertinence,  to  have 
forced  myself  where  men  have  at  least  the 
right  not  to  be  stared  at  while  undergoing 
their  agony. 

I  met  Charles  Chapin  at  the  request  of  an- 
other prisoner  at  Sing  Sing — a  young  man 
doing  a  life-term  for  a  similar  transgression  of 
the  law — ^whom  I  had  come  to  know  by  cor- 
respondence. A  story  of  mine  having  at- 
tracted his  attention  he  was  kind  enough  to 
write   me.     After   an   exchange  of  letters   I 


viii  Introduction 

went  "up  the  river"  to  see  him,  finding  a  tall, 
stalwart,  manly,  bright-faced  lad  of  twenty- 
six  who  had  gone  there  at  twenty-two.  This 
meeting  was  the  starting  point  of  an  affection 
which  has  become  one  of  the  precious  things 
in  my  life. 

The  writer  of  this  book  had  been  at  Sing 
Sing  but  a  very  short  time  when  my  younger 
friend  asked  me  if  I  would  see  the  new  arrival. 
Here  again -my  own  books  had  prepared  the 
way  for  me,  and,  as  far  as  the  conditions  per- 
mitted, our  coming  together  was  not  differ- 
ent from  what  it  would  have  been  had  we  met 
at  a  club.  My  recollection  is  that  we  talked 
of  the  public  interests  of  the  day,  of  literature, 
and  of  the  scene  around  us.  As  to  the  last 
there  was  not  a  murmur  of  complaint.  In 
subsequent  meetings  we  have  kept  to  the 
same  tone,  though  we  could  not  have  become 
as  friendly  as  we  are  without  an  element  of 
what  I  may  call  mutual  solicitude  stealing 
into  our  intercourse. 

My  object  in  bringing  up  this  point  is  to 
underscore  the  fact  that  when  it  comes  to 
human  dealing  there  is  no  difference  between 


Introduction  ix 

the  man  whom  we  somewhat  hideously  call 
a  convict  and  anybody  else.  We  arrest  him, 
we  try  him,  we  sentence  him,  we  lock  him  be- 
hind bars — and  having  in  our  own  thought 
thrust  him  outside  the  human  race  we  fancy 
that  it  must  seem  to  him  a  matter  of  course  to 
be  in  the  limbo  of  outcast  souls. 

But  not  at  all!  Arrested,  tried,  sentenced, 
buried  in  a  cell,  he  is  to  himself  as  much  a  man, 
and  the  very  same  man,  as  ever  he  was.  As 
truly  as  men  at  liberty  he  finds  the  prisoner's 
life  abnormal.  Normality,  after  all,  is  only 
what  we  are  accustomed  to.  Short  of  per- 
fection it  is  not  a  standard  in  itself.  For  the 
individual  normal  life  is  the  life  to  which  he 
has  trained  himself,  and  no  two  lives  have 
been  trained  alike.  Normality  is  an  inner 
principle  more  than  it  is  an  outer  one.  Out- 
wardly, through  a  sort  of  moral  cowardice,  we 
conform  as  best  we  can  to  accepted  patterns 
which  inwardly  we  reject;  but  it  is  the  inner 
ideal  by  which  we  truly  live.  There  are 
honored  men  by  the  million  all  over  the 
world  whose  methods  would  render  them 
abnormal  to  most  of  their  fellow-citizens  were 


X  Introduction 

the  bluff  to  be  called.  We  do  not  call  the 
bluff,  and  we  dare  not,  for  the  reason  that  the 
vast  majority  of  us  fear  that  in  any  such 
unmasking  we  ourselves  should  be  exposed. 

At  the  same  time  hidden  wrong,  however 
concealed  by  our  social  false-fronts,  demands 
an  expiation.  We  are  so  constituted — up- 
rightness is  so  much  the  native  principle  of 
the  human  being — that  our  universal  de- 
parture from  the  only  norm  there  is  cannot 
go  unrecognized.  Unconsciously,  subcon- 
sciously, and  even  to  some  extent  consciously, 
we  call  for  sacrifice  and  propitiation.  The 
more  dogged  our  refusal  to  repent  and  reform 
the  more  persistent  our  demand  for  something 
or  someone  to  suffer  in  our  stead. 

Modern  American  slang  has  coined  a  word 
for  this,  doubtless  because  the  need  cried  out 
for  expression.  Like  all  slang  it  is  the  voice 
of  the  man  in  the  street,  finding  the  right  out- 
let for  his  pent-up  soul  where  the  scholar  and 
lexicographer  have  walked  round  it.  In  this 
case,  however,  modern  and  ancient  instinct 
have  been  one,  and  in  our  slang  word  of  to- 
day we  link  up  with  a  mighty  tradition  and 


Introduction  xi 

go  back  to  our  first  recognition  of  the  soul's 
necessities. 

We  speak  of  the  man  on  whom  the  hard 
consequences  fall  as — the  goat.  So  did  the 
people  who  first  read  the  results  of  wrong  in 
terms  of  tragedy.  The  burden  of  their  sin 
was  intolerable.  Unwilling  to  see  that  they 
could  throw  off  that  burden  by  giving  up  the 
sin  they  sought  means  whereby  they  might 
go  on  committing  the  sin  and  escape  the 
penalty.  So  once  a  year  they  took  a  goat 
and  laid  their  sin  upon  his  head,  sending  him 
off  into  the  wilderness  to  get  rid  of  him.  He 
became  the  scape-goat  who  bore  their  pun- 
ishment so  that  they  could  begin  with  a  clean 
slate  again.  It  was  naive,  childish,  but 
significant. 

And  in  the  convict,  I  am  driven  to  believe, 
modern  civilization  is  not  looking  for  the 
brother  to  be  treated  wisely  because  his  weak- 
ness is  so  obvious  and  his  suffering  so  great. 
If  that  were  all  the  way  would  be  found  as 
soon  as  there  was  a  will.  The  difficulties  of 
dealing  with  the  prison  and  prisoner  are,  to 
my  mind,  largely  inventions.     When  we  con- 


xH  Introduction 

sider  what  gigantic  obstacles  we  have  over- 
come when  it  was  to  our  interest  to  overcome 
them  anything  here  is  child's  play.  We  shake 
our  heads  and  pull  long  faces  chiefly  to  get 
dust  into  our  own  eyes,  so  that  we  may  bet- 
ter carry  out  the  purpose  we  really  have  at 
heart. 

That  purpose  is  to  find  a  goat.  Is  not  that 
the  underlying  motive  of  the  world-wide 
cruelty  that  has  made  the  prison  of  the  Chris- 
tian the  nearest  thing  to  Calvary.?  Is  not 
that  the  reason  why  the  most  philanthropic 
and  tender-hearted  among  us  can  mentally 
look  on'  at  barbarities  such  as  have  rarely 
been  surpassed  on  earth  and  never  turn  a 
hair?  In  the  prisoner  we  have  found  our 
goat.  He  is  suffering  not  for  his  own  sins 
alone,  but  for  ours.  Naively,  childishly,  but 
significantly,  we  outrage  every  human  in- 
stinct within  him,  so  that  our  own  secret 
self-reproach  may  be  appeased.  The  world 
as  it  is,  society  as  we  have  formed  it,  must 
have  a  goat;  and  we  seize  the  weakest  and 
most  defenseless  thing  on  which  we  can  lay 
our  hands. 


Introduction  xiii 

I  should  say  right  here  that  I  am  not  speak- 
ing from  personal  knowledge.  I  know  only 
what  every  other  member  of  the  public  knows 
— ^what  has  been  written  of  in  newspapers  and 
books,  exposed  in  plays  and  moving  pictures, 
and  never  contradicted.  I  am  aware  too 
that  efforts  at  humanizing  the  prison  system 
have  been  made  here  and  there,  and  the  Sing 
Sing  of  to-day  is  a  proof  of  them.  But  they 
have  been  made  by  individuals  and  have  never 
had  the  public  back  of  them.  When  the 
public,  through  its  elected  representatives, 
have  been  able  to  intervene  it  has  been  largely 
to  nullify  or  put  a  stop  to  anything  meant  to 
mitigate  the  poor  goat's  suffering.  Our  women, 
our  clergymen,  our  reformers  will  cry  out 
against  atrocities  four  thousand  miles  away, 
and  not  lift  a  finger  to  stop  the  operation  of 
the  third  degree — ^to  cite  nothing  else — against 
their  own  countrymen  at  their  own  gates. 
Here  perhaps  one  should  say  in  the  words  of 
One  more  tolerant  than  I,  "These  things 
ought  ye  to  have  done  and  not  leave  the  other 
undone." 

It  is  the  more  amazing  then   to  see  the 


»v  Introduction 

human  sacrifice  coming  through  his  crucifixion 
with  exaltation  in  his  face  and  a  new  fife  in 
his  heart.  That  happens.  It  happens  rarely 
enough,  God  knows,  but  the  miracle  comes  to 
pass.  It  has  happened  in  the  case  of  the  boy 
friend  I  have  already  mentioned.  It  has 
happened  in  other  instances,  some  of  which  I 
myself  have  known.  I  have  watched  it  hap- 
pening in  the  case  of  him  whose  book  I  am 
now  commending  to  the  public. 

To  reconstruct  a  sane  and  helpful  life  when 
all  that  is  left  of  the  self  is  what  one  has  in 
common  with  the  animal  is  an  indication  of  a 
mighty  principle  of  growth.  The  writer  of 
these  pages  is  not  the  man  who  went  "  up  the 
river"  two  years  ago.  The  book  reads  as 
though  its  author  had  climbed  through  smil- 
ing hills  only  to  fall  over  a  frightful  precipice. 
Possibly;  and  yet  one  might  fall  over  a  preci- 
pice to  find  oneself  in  a  valley  of  fruits  and 
flowers,  even  if  among  them  there  are  bitter 
herbs.  That  is  the  new  life  which  out  of 
anguish  the  man  is  creating  for  himself  and 
helping  to  shed  about  him.  The  reader  will 
not  have  finished  this  book  when  he  has  read 


Introduction 


XV 


to  the  last  line,  not  any  more  than  we  have 
done  with  a  life  when  we  scan  its  record  on  a 
tombstone.  The  best  part  of  it  will  lie  in  the 
invisible  pages  through  which  the  tale  goes  on. 


WHY  THIS  BOOK  WAS  WRITTEN 

A  FRIEND  came  to  visit  me.  We  were  seated 
in  the  visitors'  room  at  Sing  Sing.  It  was  the 
first  time  we  had  met  since  that  fateful  day 
when  the  structure  I  had  spent  a  Hfetime  in 
rearing,  crashed  down  upon  me  and  buried  me 
beneath  the  ruins.  I  told  him  something  of 
my  life  in  prison;  the  dreary  monotony  of  it, 
the  loneliness,  the  hours  of  bitter  regret,  the 
long  nights  of  solitude,  the  heartache,  the 
desolation. 

In  the  new  life  in  which  I  found  myself  there 
were  duties  to  be  performed  during  the  day, 
or  I  must  have  gone  mad  with  the  morbid 
thoughts  that  were  always  surging  through 
my  brain.  But  there  were  the  long  evenings 
and  longer  nights,  sleepless  nights  in  a  cell  that 
is  no  bigger  than  a  dead  man's  grave. 

I  told  my  friend  that  I  had  sought  distrac- 
tion in  books.  I  had  plenty  of  time  for  reading 
and  more  than  twelve  thousand  volumes  to 


xviii  Why  this  Book  Was  Written 

choose  from.  Books  were  almost  my  only 
companions.  But  sometimes  I  would  read  for 
an  hour  without  retaining  a  word  and  fre- 
quently I  would  have  to  turn  back  and  read 
the  pages  again,  for  I  had  read  only  with 
my  eyes;  my  mind  was  focused  elsewhere. 
Thoughts  of  that  dreadful  tragedy  were  ever 
running  between  the  lines  of  the  printed 
pages.  Ofttimes  something  I  read  would  bring 
memories  and  a  flood  of  tears.  For  even  a 
felon  can  weep.  Oscar  Wilde,  in  the  most 
sorrowful  story  I  have  ever  read,  De  Pro- 
fundis,  into  which  the  imprisoned  poet  poured 
the  tears  of  his  tortured  soul,  wrote  these 
lines : 

"When  a  day  comes  that  a  man  in  prison 
does  not  weep,  it  is  not  when  he  is  happy  but 
when  his  heart  is  hard.'*  And  yet  there  are 
men  who  argue  that  imprisonment  is  not  an 
adequate  punishment.  They  have  never 
tried  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  turn  to  writing  during  some 
of  your  leisure  hours,"  suggested  my  friend. 
"Why  don't  you  write  a  book.?" 

"About  what.?" 


Why  this  Book  Was  Written    xix 

"Write  an  autobiography/* 
"I  haven't  that  much  egotism  left." 
"Tell    the  story  of  your  forty  years  as  a 
newspaper  man." 

That  night  in  my  cell  my  thoughts  kept  me 
awake.  Forty  years  a  newspaper  man !  Mem- 
ories began  to  crowd  in  upon  me.  It  seemed 
as  if  even  the  smallest  events  of  my  life  were 
flashing  through  a  kinetoscope.  Whatever 
else  had  happened  to  me,  my  memory  was 
unimpaired.  Events  and  persons  and  names 
through  all  my  forty  years  of  newspaper 
activity  came  back  to  me  as  vividly  as  if  they 
had  been  crowded  into  the  past  few  months. 
Thoughts  come  quickly  in  the  solitude  of  a 
prison  cell. 

Forty  years!  Looking  forward,  with  the 
inexperienced  eyes  of  youth,  forty  years  seems 
a  long  stretch  of  time,  the  span  of  a  life  of  full- 
ness. Looking  backward,  when  one  is  sixty 
and  is  at  the  end  of  his  journey,  forty  years  is 
but  a  succession  of  yesterdays  that  multiplied 
so  rapidly  they  were  come  and  gone  almost 
without  realization.  How  much  action  was 
crowded  into  those  forty  years.    How  much 


XX      Why  this  Book  Was  Written 

happiness,  how  much  sorrow;  what  ambitious 
hopes,  what  bitter  disappointments.  Some- 
times achieving  success,  often  humihated  by 
failure.  Striving  always  for  fame  and  riches, 
acquiring  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  both,  and  in  the 
end  cast  upon  the  scrap  heap  of  humanity, 
abandoned  and  forgotten,  dead  yet  alive. 

There  is  no  self-pity  in  what  I  write.  My 
heart  may  be  torn  with  anguish,  my  mind  tor- 
mented with  regret,  but  there  has  never  been 
one  moment  since  I  came  to  prison  that  I  have 
pitied  myself  or  permitted  the  pity  of  others  to 
depress  me.  I  know  why  I  am  here  and  what 
brought  it  about.  I  know  that  if  I  were  not 
here  I  should  not  be  living.  I  know  that  if  I 
had  died  and  the  dear  one  I  loved  had  survived 
she  would  be  suffering  greater  privation  than 
I  ever  can.    Nothing  else  matters. 

The  day  after  my  friend  suggested  that  I 
write  a  book,  I  chanced  to  read  a  bit  of  philoso- 
phy that  was  written  by  Samuel  Smiles.  "It 
is  good  for  men  to  be  roused  into  action  by 
difficulty,  rather  than  to  slumber  away  their 
lives  in  useless  apathy  and  indolence,"  wrote 
this  fine  philosopher.     In  the  same  essay  he 


Why  this  Book  Was  Written    xxi 

expressed  this  thought:  "There  are  natures 
which  blossom  and  ripen  amidst  trials  that 
would  only  wither  and  decay  in  an  atmosphere 
of  ease  and  comfort.'* 

Solitude  drives  some  men  mad;  it  sharpens 
the  wits  of  others.  There  are  many  instances 
of  courageous  men  who  have  turned  confine- 
ment in  prison  into  a  great  personal  achieve- 
ment. More  faint-hearted  ones,  crushed  and 
defeated  by  self-pity,  drifted  quickly  into  a 
condition  of  impotent  inertia.  Hopeless  and 
without  ambition,  they  withered  and  died. 

Some  of  the  greatest  books  in  all  literature 
were  written  in  the  solitude  of  confinement, 
written  by  men  who  suffered  greater  hardships 
than  I  shall  perhaps  ever  know,  for  they  were 
in  prison  in  the  days  when  men  were  treated 
with  inhuman  cruelty,  before  the  searchlight 
of  publicity  had  penetrated  into  the  loathsome 
dungeons  where  they  were  chained  and  tor- 
tured. They  are  long  since  dead.  What  they 
wrote  still  lives  and  will  endure  as  long  as 
books  are  read.  Thoughts  expressed  in  words 
are  imperishable. 

When  I  realized  what  had  been  achieved  by 


xxii  Why  this  Book  Was  Written 

such  illustrious  men  as  Cervantes  and  Dante 
and  John  Bunyan  and  Defoe  and  Lovelace 
and  Cooper  and  Campanella  and  countless 
others,  I  was  lifted  out  of  despondent  lethargy 
and  fired  with  ambition  to  try  and  do  some- 
thing besides  cry.    It  is  so  easy  to  cry  in  prison. 

I  began  to  write.  In  memory  I  lived  my  life 
over  again.  My  manuscript  grew  into  many 
pages  and  the  occupation  of  mind  it  gave  often 
lifted  me  out  of  myself  and  my  gloomy  sur- 
roundings. I  think  it  may  have  saved  me  from 
the  worst  possible  fate  that  could  have  befallen 
me.  I  wrote  on  from  day  to  day  without  fixed 
purpose.  I  had  no  thought  of  ever  publishing 
my  story.  I  was  content  that  it  gave  me 
something  to  do  and  that  in  doing  it  the  iron 
within  was  rising  to  crush  out  morbid  thoughts. 

About  the  time  my  story  was  nearing  com- 
pletion, Major  Lewis  E.  Lawes  came  to  Sing 
Sing  as  Warden,  a  man  of  heart  and  under- 
standing, the  right  man  in  a  big  job.  Because 
I  had  previously  had  experience  in  newspaper 
making,  he  asked  me  to  become  editor  of  the 
institutional  paper,  the  Sing  Sing  Bulletin. 
A  request  from  the  Warden  is  equivalent  to  an 


Why  this  Book  Was  Written  xxiii 

order  and  it  was  my  duty  to  comply  as  obe- 
diently as  if  I  had  been  ordered  to  duty  on  the 
coal  dump.  Major  Lawes  did  not  make  his 
order  compulsory.  He  simply  pointed  out  that 
it  might  be  an  opportunity  for  me  to  do  some- 
thing useful,  something  that  might  be  of  last- 
ing benefit  to  others.  It  is  fine  to  make  believe 
that  one  is  still  of  some  use  in  the  world,  even 
though  he  fails. 

I  published  the  first  chapter  of  my  auto- 
biography in  our  prison  paper  and  some  of  my 
associates  here  urged  me  to  continue  it.  My 
good  friend  Basil  King,  who  wrote  that 
wonderful  story.  The  City  of  Comrades,  read 
my  manuscript.  His  advice  prompted  me  to 
send  it  to  a  publisher.  That  is  how  my  story 
now  comes  to  you. 

C.  E.  C. 

Sing  Sing,  May,  1920. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — From  the  Bottom     .         .         .         .         i 

II. — Barnstorming  ....      20 

III. — Chicago  "Tribune"  Days         .         .      40 

IV.— My  First  Big  "Scoop"     ...       59 

V. — A  Murder  Mystery  ...      82 

VI. — "Star"  Reporting   .         .         .         .      98 

VII.— A  City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five  126 

VIII.— Breaking  into  Park  Row         .  155 

IX.— On  the  "World's"  City  Desk         .     172 

X. — Newspapering  To-day       .         .  193 

XI.— The  Pulitzers  .         .         •         .216 

XII. — Newspaper  Ethics    .         .         .  231 

XIII. — Gathering  Clouds   .         .         .         .265 

XIV.— Tragedy    .  .         .         .287 

XV.— A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing  .         .         •     3i3 


XXV 


Charles  Chapin's  Story 

CHAPTER  I 

FROM  THE  BOTTOM 

I  BEGAN  life,  and  I  ended  life — the  real 
living  of  the  everyday  world — as  a  newspaper 
man. 

Newspapering,  of  a  kind,  commenced  for 
me  in  a  thriving  little  Western  town  when  I 
was  just  fourteen  years  old,  and  had  started 
out  to  climb  from  the  bottom  the  long  ladder 
that  leads  up  through  education  and  experi- 
ence to  fame  and  fortune.  In  this  little  town 
I  was  attracted  by  a  sign  in  the  window  of 
a  newspaper  office.  A  boy  was  wanted  to 
deliver  papers. 

I  applied  at  the  front  counter  for  the  job 
and  was  directed  to  the  circulation  manager, 
who  critically  sized  me  up  and  declared  that 


2  From  the  Bottom 

I  wouldn't  do.  He  needed  strong  boys,  he 
said,  boys  who  were  husky  enough  to  pack  a 
heavy  bundle  of  newspapers  over  a  route 
several  miles  in  length  and  deliver  them  to 
subscribers  before  they  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

I  was  a  little  chap,  even  for  my  age,  but  I 
had  grit  and  persuaded  the  man  to  give  me  a 
trial.  It  was  my  duty  to  be  in  the  pressroom 
at  3.30  o'clock  every  morning,  take  papers 
from  the  press  as  fast  as  they  were  printed,  fold 
to  regulation  form,  and  start  off  with  several 
hundred  strapped  to  my  shoulder,  delivering 
to  the  homes  of  subscribers  as  I  went  along. 
It  was  a  five-mile  tramp  before  breakfast  and 
in  almost  the  hilliest  town  I  ever  saw.  Many 
of  the  streets  on  my  route  were  so  steep  that 
one  took  almost  as  many  steps  upward  as 
forward  and  in  the  winter  months  I  would 
often  flounder  through  snow  that  was  waist 
deep. 

My  wages  were  four  dollars  a  week.  I 
realized  that  I  could  not  pay  expenses  and  save 
up  for  my  education  on  this  slender  income,  so 
I  set  to  work  to  find  ways  of  increasing  it. 
Opportunity    came    knocking    at    my    door 


From  the  Bottom  3 

within  a  week.  In  the  same  building  with  the 
newspaper  was  a  telegraph  office  and  one 
morning  when  I  returned  from  delivering 
papers  the  operator  called  me  in  and  asked 
if  I  would  carry  an  important  message  to  the 
home  of  a  United  States  Senator.  It  was 
from  President  Grant,  he  said,  and  could  not 
be  delayed.  His  regular  messenger  boy  hadn't 
shown  up. 

I  readily  consented  and  I  recall  how  chesty 
I  felt  as  bearer  of  a  Presidential  message  on 
which  the  fate  of  the  nation  might  hang.  My 
importance  grew  on  me  as  I  trudged  along  and 
finally  I  broke  into  a  run.  When  the  maid 
came  to  the  door  and  said  the  Senator  wasn't 
up  I  insisted  that  she  show  me  to  his  bed- 
chamber. 

I  was  led  upstairs  to  where  the  Senator  was 
sleeping  his  wits  away,  perhaps  dreaming  of 
that  big  land  swindle  with  which  his  name  was 
afterward  so  scandalously  linked.  I  rapped 
several  times  without  a  response.  The  door 
was  ajar  and  I  could  get  a  glimpse  of  him  in  his 
bed,  the  blankets  pulled  over  his  head  as  if  to 
deaden  the  sound  of  his  noisy  snoring. 


4  From  the  Bottom 

Getting  no  reply  to  my  repeated  knocking  I 
pushed  the  door  open,  went  boldly  into  the 
room,  and  yanked  the  bedclothing  from  the 
sleeper.  He  awoke  with  a  start  and  glared  at 
me  as  if  he  were  going  to  bite. 

"Wake  up,  Senator,"  I  exclaimed,  not  a  bit 
abashed,  "I  have  an  important  telegraph 
message  tor  you  from  President  Grant."  I 
know  that  I  must  have  swelled  up  as  I  thrust 
it  into  his  outstretched  hand. 

He  read  it  and  began  to  laugh. 

"How  did  you  know  that  it  is  important?" 
he  asked. 

"Any  message  from  President  Grant  to  a 
United  States  Senator  must  be  important,"  I 
replied.  The  Senator  patted  my  head  as  he 
reached  for  his  trousers,  drew  out  a  silver 
dollar,  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"Nothing  to  collect  on  the  message,"  I 
hastened  to  assure  him. 

"The  dollar  is  yours  for  being  my  little 
alarm  clock  and  waking  me  up,"  he  good- 
naturedly  replied. 

He  asked  me  to  pull  the  bellcord  and  when  a 
servant  responded  he  ordered  that  breakfast 


From  the  Bottom  5 

be  brought  up  for  both  of  us.     And  when  it 
came  he  made  me  sit  down  and  help  him  eat  it. 

Di^ring  the  breakfast  he  asked  me  a  lot  of 
questions  about  myself  and  my  ambitions  and 
he  gave  me  some  wholesome  advice  and  loaned 
me  two  books  from  his  library.  He  told  me 
stories  about  famous  statesmen  and  how  some 
of  them  had  begun  life  as  I  was  beginning  and 
had  fought  their  way  to  the  top.  It  was  a 
wonderful  hour  I  spent  with  him  and  there 
were  other  hours  and  more  silver  dollars  and 
the  loan  of  many  volumes  from  his  well- 
stocked  bookcases  in  the  weeks  that  followed 
before  he  was  called  back  to  Washington  by 
the  opening  of  Congress. 

When  I  reported  back  to  the  telegraph  office 
I  was  offered  a  steady  job,  the  operator  hav- 
ing discovered  that  his  red-headed  messenger 
had  run  off  with  a  patent  medicine  vendor. 
The  messenger  work  wouldn't  interfere  with 
my  delivering  papers.  I  was  to  get  thirteen 
dollars  a  month  and  "perquisites."  The  big 
sounding  word  meant  that  I  was  permitted  to 
charge  an  extra  quarter  for  every  telegram  I 
delivered  more  than  a  mile  from  the  office. 


6  From  the  Bottom 

Visions  of  affluence  and  the  means  of  obtaining 
the  much  coveted  education  flashed  through 
the  dreams  of  a  tired  small  boy  that  night. 

Before  falling  asleep  I  figured  up  how  much 
my  earnings  might  amount  to  in  a  year  and 
was  elated  with  the  total  I  set  down.  Deliver- 
ing papers  at  four  dollars  a  week  and  telegraph 
messages  at  thirteen  dollars  a  month  footed  up 
three  hundred  and  sixty-four  dollars  a  year, 
not  counting  "perquisites."  The  "perqui- 
sites" was  the  only  uncertain  element  in  my 
calculations.  I  knew  that  a  large  percentage 
of  the  population  lived  more  than  a  mile  from 
the  office  and  I  tried  to  make  mental  esti- 
mates of  how  many  might  be  important 
enough  to  receive  telegrams.  I  grew  as  op- 
timistic over  my  prospect  as  the  visionary 
Colonel  Sellers  did  in  his  calculations  of  how 
many  bottles  of  lotion  would  be  needed  to  cure 
all  the  sore  eyed  persons  in  the  world. 

The  next  day  opportunity  came  knocking 
again.  Across  the  way  from  "our  office"  was 
an  unpretentious  restaurant,  run  by  a  jolly, 
red  faced  man  with  an  enormous  nose,  and  his 
adorable  wife.     It  was  cheap  as  to  price,  but 


From  the  Bottom  7 

everything  was  of  good  quality.  It  was  the 
cleanest  and  neatest  eating  place  I  can  recall. 
At  least  that  is  the  impression  that  lingers 
in  my  memory  after  the  elapse  of  almost  half  a 
century.  I  wasn't  so  fastidious  as  regards 
restaurants  and  food  then  as  I  grew  to  be  in 
later  years.  How  I  did  love  that  dear 
motherly  woman  who  hurried  steaming  hot 
coffee  and  a  "stack  of  wheats"  to  me  every 
morning  when  I  returned  from  delivering 
papers. 

One  morning  she  began  chatting  with  me  in 
a  friendly  way  and  when  she  had  coaxed  me  to 
tell  about  myself  she  proposed  that  I  help 
them  out  by  acting  as  cashier  during  the  mid- 
day rush  hour.  In  return  I  was  to  get  my 
meals.  It  took  me  less  than  a  minute  to 
accept.  It  meant  that  I  could  save  my  earn- 
ings, for  I  also  had  free  lodgings,  the  foreman 
of  the  pressroom  having  granted  me  permission 
to  sleep  on  a  stack  of  print  paper.  I  acquired 
a  bedquilt  and  at  night  I  would  roll  up  in  it 
and  sleep  more  soundly  and  untroubled  than 
ever  I  did  in  the  luxurious  Plaza  Hotel  in  New 
York,  where,  later  in  life,  I  made  my  home  for 


8  From  the  Bottom 

many  years.  There  are  tender  memories  of 
my  nest  a-top  the  reserve  supply  of  print 
paper,  covered  only  with  my  quilt  of  many 
colors  and  fantastic  design.  It  was  there  I 
learned  the  lesson  of  self-education;  a  lesson 
that  was  worth  while. 

Looking  backward  now  from  the  last  mile- 
stone of  my  life's  journey,  I  am  wondering 
what  I  might  have  achieved  if  I  could  have 
had  the  opportunities  so  many  young  men 
neglect. 

There  was  an  editor  who  took  a  liking  to  me 
and  who  helped  me  in  a  lot  of  ways.  I  have 
often  wondered  how  so  busy  a  man  could  have 
the  time  or  patience  to  give  so  much  attention 
to  so  small  a  human  atom  as  me.  He  selected 
books  for  me  to  read  and  he  would  talk  to  me 
about  them  and  explain  many  of  the  perplexi- 
ties that  lodged  in  my  mind.  I  had  a  dupli- 
cate key  to  his  bookcases  and  was  permitted  to 
take  a  book  whenever  I  wished.  In  return  for 
this  privilege  I  kept  the  bookcases  in  order. 
It  was  a  fine  opportunity  for  a  chap  who  was 
hungry  for  knowledge  and  had  no  other  way 
of  acquiring  it.     And  how  I  did  read !    There 


From  the  Bottom  9 

was  nothing  in  the  wide  range  of  literature 
that  I  wouldn't  tackle  and  try  to  comprehend. 
I  read  all  of  the  essays  of  Emerson  and  Carlyle, 
the  philosophies  of  Aristotle,  Epictetus,  Mon- 
taigne, and  Johnson  and  volume  after  volume 
of  history,  ancient,  modern,  and  medieval.  In 
the  line  of  fiction  I  read  all  of  Balzac,  Dumas, 
Hugo,  Dickens,  Scott,  Thackeray,  and  a  score 
of  others  of  the  great  authors.  I  read  the 
lives  of  the  great  men  of  all  times. 

And,  best  of  all,  I  read  the  Bible.  Of  all 
authors,  of  all  times,  there  were  none  who 
expressed  themselves  so  clearly  and  so  beauti- 
fully as  did  the  men  who  wrote  this  greatest 
Book  of  all  literature. 

I  studied  the  sciences,  especially  astronomy, 
chemistry,  geology,  and  ethnology.  The  works 
of  Voltaire  and  Darwin  interested  but  mysti- 
fied me.  I  read  and  studied  and  analyzed  so 
far  as  my  undeveloped  brain  would  reach,  but 
in  all  my  reading  of  such  books  my  belief  in 
God  and  in  the  teachings  of  Christ  was  never 
shaken.  To-day,  in  spite  of  my  present  condi- 
tion and  what  brought  me  to  it,  that  belief  is 
as  firmly  rooted  as  ever. 


10  From  the  Bottom 

I  learned  other  things  in  the  newspaper 
office  and  in  the  telegraph  office  that  were  use- 
ful later  on.  The  easiest  accomplishment  that 
came  to  me  was  when  I  mastered  the  Morse 
code  and  learned  to  send  and  receive  telegraph 
messages.  The  operator  who  employed  me  as 
messenger  boy  was  my  instructor  and  I  repaid 
him  by  often  taking  messages  from  the  wires 
while  he  lingered  with  convivial  companions 
in  a  nearby  saloon.  One  night  the  newspaper 
editor  was  worried  because  it  was  nearly  time 
for  the  night  report  of  the  Associated  Press  to 
begin  and  the  telegraph  operator  couldn't  be 
found.  Scouts  were  sent  scurrying  in  every 
direction,  to  search  tor  him.  When  they 
found  him  and  brought  him  to  the  office  he 
could  scarcely  stand  on  his  feet. 

The  signal  for  clearing  the  wire  had  already 
been  given  and  the  operator  lurched  over  to 
the  table  and  responded  to  the  call  of  his  office. 
The  press  report  began  coming.  I  knew  the 
operator  was  in  no  condition  for  duty  and  I 
watched  him  with  nervous  apprehension. 
Automatically  he  grabbed  a  pencil  and  began 
to  write  but  he  got  down  only  a  few  illegible 


From  the  Bottom  ii 

sentences  when  he  collapsed  and  plunged  from 
his  seat  to  the  floor. 

I  let  him  lie  there  in  drunken  stupor  while  I 
took  every  word  of  the  report  without  once 
breaking  in  on  the  wire  to  ask  that  a  sentence 
be  repeated.  The  report  was  several  thousand 
words  in  length.  The  editor,  tense  and  anx- 
ious, sat  by  my  side,  editing  the  copy  as  fast 
as  I  wrote  it,  sending  it  direct  to  the  compos- 
ing room.  When  it  was  done  I  almost  went 
to  pieces  from  the  nervous  strain. 

The  editor  told  everyone  in  the  office  how 
I  had  saved  the  paper  from  being  sent  to  press 
without  a  line  of  telegraph  news  and  before  I 
went  to  bed  I  got  him  to  promise  not  to  report 
the  operator.  I  met  the  operator  many  years 
later.  He  had  become  chief  operator  in  one 
of  the  most  important  telegraph  offices  in  the 
West  and  gave  me  every  facility  at  his  disposal 
when  I  called  to  arrange  for  filing  my  report 
of  a  great  political  convention.  He  told  me 
then  that  he  never  drank  another  drop  of 
liquor  after  that  night  I  saved  him  from 
disgrace. 

At  the  time  I  mastered  telegraphy  I  also 


12  From  the  Bottom 

learned  to  set  type.  And  I  learned  something 
of  what  is  called  job  work,  such  as  setting  dis- 
play type  for  letter  heads,  business  cards, 
circulars,  and  other  commercial  necessities  of 
the  printer's  art.  I  learned  to  lock  a  form  and 
put  it  on.a  press,  and  to  run  and  feed  the  press. 
I  got  no  pay  for  what  I  did  other  than  what  I 
earned  by  delivering  papers  and  telegraph 
messages.  I  did  it  because  I  loved  it  and 
cared  for  no  other  form  of  enjoyment.  I  had 
no  boy  friends  and  made  no  attempt  to  culti- 
vate them.  My  associates  were  men,  chiefly 
men  from  whom  I  could  learn  something  useful 
and  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  entire  organi- 
zation of  the  newspaper  office  who  didn't 
cheerfully  explain  to  me  anything  I  asked  of 
him.  Even  the  busy  editors  and  printers 
would  stop  important  work  to  help  me  with 
something  I  couldn't  comprehend.  Perhaps 
that  is  why  I  have  always  tried  to  be  helpful 
to  boys  who  were  beginning  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ladder  as  I  did. 

At  the  time  I  was  trying  to  educate  myself 
from  books  borrowed  from  the  editor's  library, 
I  chanced  to  get  a  copy  of  a  weekly  story  paper 


From  the  Bottom  13 

that  was  exclusively  for  boys  and  girls.  With 
that  issue  there  had  been  started  a  department 
for  instruction  in  shorthand,  conducted  by  one 
of  the  ablest  stenographers  in  New  York. 
Shorthand  was  then  almost  unknown  in  the 
West  and  even  in  the  big  cities  the  compara- 
tively few  who  had  mastered  it  were  employed 
in  court  and  legislative  work.  It  was  but 
little  known  even  in  big  business,  which 
hadn't  yet  heard  of  the  telephone,  or  of  electric 
lights,  or  typewriting  and  adding  machines.  I 
became  interested,  sent  on  my  subscription  to 
the  magazine  and  studied  the  lessons.  Soon 
I  purchased  a  set  of  textbooks  and  applied 
myself  with  such  industry  that  I  quickly 
mastered  it.  I  got  so  that  I  could  take  down 
in  shorthand  messages  that  came  over  the 
telegraph  wires.  Evenings  I  would  attend 
lectures  and  public  meetings  and  constant 
practice  soon  made  it  possible  for  me  to  make 
verbatim  reports  of  even  the  most  rapid 
speakers. 

One  day  a  lawyer  came  to  me  and  asked  if 
I  could  report  an  important  trial  in  which  he 
was  to  appear  as  counsel.     I  was  timid  about 


14  From  the  Bottom 

undertaking  it,  but  urged  on  by  the  tele- 
graph operator  and  my  friend  the  editor,  I 
consented.  The  day  of  the  trial  came  and  I 
walked  importantly  into  the  courtroom  with 
my  notebooks  and  pencils.  The  lawyer  who 
had  employed  me  greeted  me  effusively  and 
escorted  me  to  a  table  inside  the  railing  and 
immediately  under  the  judge's  bench.  There 
had  never  been  a  stenographic  report  of  a  trial 
in  that  court. 

Before  the  trial  began  the  lawyer  made  a 
pretty  speech  about  me,  telling  how  I  had 
mastered  the  mysteries  of  a  wonderful  sign 
language  that  enabled  me  to  take  down  every 
word  as  fast  as  it  was  uttered,  no  matter  how 
rapidly  the  speaker  might  talk.  There  were 
few  stenographers  who  were  my  equals  for 
speed  and  accuracy,  the  lawyer  lyingly  pro- 
claimed. The  courtroom  was  crowded  and  I 
felt  as  if  a  spotlight  had  been  suddenly  turned 
on  me.  The  whitehaired  judge  beamed  benig- 
nantly  as  he  consented  to  my  official  appoint- 
ment to  report  the  trial. 

There  was  one  in  the  courtroom  who  was 
hostile.     I  knew  it  the  instant  I  spotted  him, 


From  the  Bottom  15 

scowling  crossly  at  me  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  table.  He  was  a  weazened  old  chap,  as 
bald  as  an  egg,  hooked  nose  and  catlike  eyes. 
He  had  been  official  court  reporter  for  many 
years  and  wrote  longhand  with  considerable 
speed.  He  evidently  looked  upon  me  as 
menacing  his  job.  "  Ignoring  my  appointment, 
he  got  out  a  ream  of  legal  cap  and  proceeded 
to  take  testimony  in  accustomed  longhand. 

As  many  of  the  witnesses  were  foreigners 
and  spoke  brokenly  I  experienced  some  diffi- 
culty in  understanding  them,  but  I  felt  that  I 
was  getting  along  smoothly  until  the  judge 
directed  me  to  read  the  reply  a  witness  had 
made  to  the  preceding  question.  I  read  aloud 
from  my  notes  and  suddenly  came  to  a  halt. 
I  stammered  and  stuttered.  My  notes  had 
become  undecipherable.  The  shorthand  char- 
acters were  dancing  a  jib.  I  could  make 
nothing  of  them.  The  lawyer  who  employed 
me  glared  angrily  and  the  old  fiend  with  the 
hook  nose  sneered  contemptuously. 

The  judge  alone  was  sympathetic.  He 
evidently  understood  that  my  confusion  was 
due  to  nervousness  rather  than   to   incompe- 


i6  From  the  Bottom 

tence.  The  judge  tried  to  encourage  me  by 
telling  me  not  to  get  flustered  and  to  take  as 
much  time  as  necessary  for  the  translation. 
The  more  I  tried  the  more  hopelessly  confused 
I  grew.  At  last  the  judge  motioned  to  old 
hooknose  to  read  from  his  report.  How  my 
heart  throbbed  the  humiliation  I  felt  when 
that  hateful  old  court  reporter  gave  me  a 
withering  look  of  contempt  as  he  rose  and  read 
from  his  notes  in  a  loud,  firm  voice.  I  have 
always  hated  him  and  his  mean,  supercilious 
sneer  with  which  he  sank  contentedly  back  in 
his  chair  and  gloated  over  my  defeat.  What 
stung  the  hardest  was  that  almost  the  instant 
the  judge  signaled  to  old  hooknose,  the  tan- 
talizing hieroglyphics  over  which  I  had  stum- 
bled suddenly  came  to  life  and  became  as 
translatable  as  ordinary  print.  But  it  was  too 
late.     I  felt  crushed  and  beaten. 

In  the  telegraph  office  one  evening,  I  scrib- 
bled a  fanciful  story  which  I  called  An  Autobi- 
graphy  of  a  Hotel  Office  Chair.  I  left  it  on  a 
desk  when  I  went  across  the  street  to  eat  and 
couldn't  find  it  when  I  returned.  The  oper- 
ator had  begun  taking  the  press  report  and  I 


From  the  Bottom  17 

couldn't  bother  him.  I  thought  he  might 
have  chucked  it  into  the  wastebasket,  so 
went  to  bed,  but  when  I  returned  from  deliver- 
ing papers  the  next  morning  I  found  a  note 
from  the  editor,  comphmenting  me  on  what  he 
graciously  described  as  an  "  exceedingly  well- 
written  little  sketch/'  He  added:  "Stick  to  it 
and  you'll  get  there."  Two  silver  dollars 
were  enclosed. 

I  was  transported  to  the  seventh  heaven 
with  delight  when  I  found  that  he  had  put  my 
Autobiography  of  a  Hotel  Office  Chair  in  a  con- 
spicuous position  on  the  editorial  page. 
Within  an  hour  I  read  it  not  less  than  a  dozen 
times.  Never  were  telegraph  messages  deliv- 
ered with  greater  celerity  than  I  delivered 
them  that  day.     I  felt  as  if  I  had  wings. 

When  the  operator  got  to  the  office  he 
explained  the  mystery  of  how  my  story  got 
into  print.  He  had  noticed  it  lying  on  the 
desk  when  I  went  to  supper  and  had  picked  it 
up  and  read  it.  He  took  it  to  the  editor. 
"I'll  print  it,"  the  editor  said.  "That  lad 
has  got  stuff  in  him.  He'll  make  a  news- 
paper man  some  day." 


i8  From  the  Bottom 

He  double  leaded  my  story  and  put  it  on 
the  same  page  with  his  own  brilliant  editorials, 
for  he  was  a  brilliant  writer,  as  I  recall  him, 
much  too  big  a  man  for  the  job  he  occupied 
or  the  narrow  sphere  in  which  some  unexplain- 
able  freak  of  fate  had  cast  him.  I  was  an 
editor  in  Chicago  when  I  read  of  his  tragic 
death.  He  was  dropped  to  make  room  for  a 
younger  man  and  he  went  into  the  woods 
and  blew  out  his  wonderful  brains. 

A  few  more  words  of  conceit  about  my  story 
of  the  hotel  office  chair.  A  few  days  after  it 
was  printed  the  editor  showed  me  the  Chicago 
Tribune  and  the  St.  Louis  Globe  Democrat. 
Each  had  reprinted  my  story,  with  credit  to 
the  paper  in  which  it  first  appeared.  Nothing 
I  ever  did  afterwards  in  the  field  of  journalism 
brought  me  so  much  happiness. 

I  began  studying  the  papers  of  the  big  cities. 
Often  I  would  read  descriptions  of  events,  get 
the  facts  in  my  mind,  and  rewrite  them  in  my 
own  way,  critically  comparing  what  I  had 
written  with  what  had  been  printed.  I  think 
this  helped  as  much  as  anything  in  laying 
the  foundation  for  what  I  ultimately  came  to. 


.   From  the  Bottom  19 

Whenever  I  could  I  talked  to  my  friend,  the 
editor,  about  my  ambition  and  he  was  my  ever- 
willing  tutor  and  guide.  One  day  he  called 
me  to  him  and  said  that  before  the  year  was  up 
he  would  give  me  a  regular  job  as  reporter.  I 
was  elated  over  the  promise  and  during  the 
ensuing  months  I  studied  harder  than  ever. 

Then  came  a  calamity  in  my  young  life. 
Whether  it  was  because  I  worked  too  much 
and  slept  too  little,  or  because  I  was  sleeping 
in  the  foul  atmosphere  of  a  basement  press- 
room, I  was  stricken  with  a  fever  and  when 
next  I  was  able  to  sit  up  I  was  a  miserable  little 
skeleton  of  skin  and  bones. 

All  ambition  was  gone.  Even  that  bright 
and  happy  dream  of  a  newspaper  career  van- 
ished with  the  delirium  I  had  suffered.  There 
was  but  one  thing  in  all  the  world  I  wanted. 
I  wanted  to  see  my  mother.  And  home  to  her 
I  went,  as  fast  as  a  train  could  take  me. 


CHAPTER  II 

BARNSTORMING 

As  soon  as  I  had  recovered  from  my  illness,  I 
began  hunting  for  a  job.  I  had  already  decided 
on  a  newspaper  career  and  I  went  to  Chicago 
with  the  hope  of  finding  employment  as  a  re- 
porter. Not  one  of  the  editors  appeared  eager 
to  grab  me.     One  offered  me  a  job  as  office  boy. 

The  only  one  who  listened  to  me  seriously 
was  the  venerable  Wilbur  F.  Storey,  one  of  the 
greatest  editors  of  his  day.  He  was  proprietor 
of  the  liveliest  and  most  enterprising  newspaper 
in  the  West,  the  Chicago  Timesy  then  at  the 
top  notch  of  its  popularity.  The  day  I  called 
on  him,  there  had  appeared  in  the  Times  the 
most  blatantly  sensational  headline  that  was 
ever  printed  in  a  respectable  newspaper.  It 
was  the  talk  of  the  town.  Over  an  account  of 
a  hanging,  in  big,  black  type,  was:  "Jerked 
TO  Jesus." 

30 


Barnstorming  21 

When  I  entered  Mr.  Storey's  sanctum  he 
was  tilted  back  in  a  big  swivel  chair,  his  long 
legs  stretched  across  the  top  of  his  desk.  I 
imagine  that  he  was  gloating  over  the  sen- 
sation that  shocking  headline  had  created. 
He  was  chuckling  and  smiling  and  his  bony 
fingers  were  clutching  his  snow-white  whiskers. 

No  one  was  ever  more  gracious  to  me.  I 
told  him  my  story  and  of  my  ambition  to 
become  a  reporter.  He  even  read  the  clipping 
I  showed  him  of  An  Autobiography  of  a  Hotel 
Office  Chair.  He  asked  a  lot  of  questions  but 
in  the  end  said  that  a  boy  of  sixteen,  no  matter 
how  bright  he  might  be,  was  too  young  and 
inexperienced  to  undertake  a  reporter's  job  in 
a  big  city. 

"  Go  back  to  your  home  town  or  some  other 
small  city  and  get  a  few  years  of  practical 
training,"  he  said,  "  and  when  you  have  done 
this  come  to  me  again.  Don't  get  discouraged. 
I  am  sure  you  have  got  good  stuff  in  you  and 
the  grit  to  win  success." 

And  the  editor  who  was  threatened  with  tar 
and  feathers  at  the  time  of  the  Civil  War  and 
who  was  once  publicly  horsewhipped  by  an 


22  Barnstorming 

irate  burlesque  actresss,  put  his  arm  about  me 
and  walked  with  me  to  the  elevator.  It  was 
the  last  time  I  ever  spoke  to  him,  though  a  few 
years  later  I  was  city  editor  of  the  great  news- 
paper he  created. 

I  went  back  to  the  town  where  my  parents 
lived,  determined  to  follow  the  advice  Mr. 
Storey  had  given  me,  but  I  discovered  that  it 
was  easier  for  him  to  tell  me  what  to  do  than  it 
was  for  me  to  do  it.  Neither  of  the  grouchy 
old  editors  of  the  two  daily  newspapers  in  my 
home  town  were  sufficiently  impressed  with 
my  youthful  enthusiasm  to  give  me  a  chance  to 
develop  the  talent  that  was  screaming  for  an 
outlet.  Even  the  news  items  I  wrote  for  them 
didn't  mollify  their  crabbedness.  I  offered  to 
work  three  months  on  trial  without  pay,  but 
they  were  mercilessly  unyielding  to  the  elo- 
quence of  my  appeals,  gruffly  telling  me  to  go 
to  school  and  wait  until  I  was  grown  up  before 
venturing  to  break  into  journalism. 

Journalism!  How  I  grew  to  detest  that 
much  abused  word.  Every  brainless  mutt  I 
ever  met  in  a  newspaper  office  described  him- 
self as  a  "journalist."    The  real  men,  the  men 


Barnstorming  23 

who  knew  news,  knew  how  to  get  it  and  knew 
how  to  write  it,  preferred  to  be  known  as 
newspaper  men.  One  never  hears  a  star 
reporter  along  Park  Row  speak  of  journaHsm. 

In  our  town  there  had  been  one  of  those 
mushroom  insurance  companies  that  sud- 
denly spring  into  existence,  collect  all  the 
money  in  sight  and  then  blow  up.  This 
particular  company  had  gone  into  bankruptcy 
and  the  sheriff  was  selling  at  auction  what  was 
left  of  the  wreck.  Among  its  effects  were  a 
printing  press  and  a  fairly  complete  outfit. 
I  happened  along,  chirped  a  low  bid  and  down 
came  the  auctioneer's  hammer.  It  was  mine. 
Nearly  all  of  my  savings  went  to  pay  for  it. 
I  got  a  dray  to  cart  it  to  our  home  and  mother 
gave  me  two  large  rooms  on  an  upper  floor  in 
which  to  establish  a  printing  ofl^ice.  I  remem- 
ber making  myself  unpopular  with  the  rest  of 
the  family  by  scrubbing  inky  type  in  the 
bathtub. 

I  worked  most  of  that  night  putting  my 
print  shop  in  shape  and  the  next  day  I  printed 
business  cards  and  circulars,  announcing  that 
I  was  prepared  to  do  all  kinds  of  commercial 


24  Barnstorming 

printing  at  prices  much  lower  than  any  com- 
petitor. I  got  as  many  orders  as  I  could  fill  by 
soliciting  among  merchants  and  family  friends 
and  my  printing  business  grew  so  fast  that  I 
had  to  work  day  and  night  to  keep  up.  To 
gratify  my  ambition  to  write,  I  began  publish- 
ing a  monthly  magazine  for  boys  and  girls 
which  I  called  Our  Compliments.  I  wrote 
nearly  ever  line  in  it,  set  all  of  the  type  and 
did  the  presswork. 

Our  Compliments  became  a  flourishing  pub- 
lication, even  if  it  did  make  a  dent  in  the 
earnings  of  my  printing  business.  Many  of 
the  budding  geniuses  of  that  period  afterward 
entered  the  swelling  ranks  of  professional 
newspaper  writers  and  authors.  We  amateurs 
exchanged  publications  and  got  to  know  each 
other.  I  conceived  the  idea  of  forming  an 
association  of  amateur  editors,  appointed 
myself  secretary,  issued  elaborate  invitations 
to  a  convention  and  the  Western  Amateur 
Press  Association  came  into  existence.  We 
elected  Alex  Dingwall  president,  the  same 
"Sandy"  Dingwall  who  became  famous  and 
rich  as  a  theatrical  manager  in  New  York,  was 


Barnstorming  25 

much  loved  and  died  not  long  ago,  leaving 
nearly  a  million  dollars  and  almost  as  many 
mourners. 

Now  I  made  a  false  step ;  I  became  an  actor. 
That  is,  my  name  was  printed  on  playbills 
as  an  actor,  but  if  there  are  any  alive  who  ever 
saw  me  on  the  stage,  I  am  sure  they  will  back 
me  up  when  I  declare  that  I  never  was  an 
actor. 

At  the  time  I  was  editing  Our  Compliments 
and  running  a  printing  business  on  a  small 
scale,  I  had  a  young  friend  who  was  sadly 
stage-struck.  In  appearance  he  was  not 
unlike  pictures  of  Edwin  Booth  in  his  younger 
days.  Conscious  of  the  resemblance,  he  wore 
his  hair  long  and  wavy,  soaked  it  with  oil 
and  brushed  it  back  so  as  to  give  prominence 
to  his  forehead.  He  affected  a  serious  and 
thoughtful  expression  of  countenance,  like  the 
famous  tragedian  he  idolized,  and  looked  the 
highbrow  he  fancied  himself  to  be.  He  always 
wore  a  long  frock  coat  and  enormously  high 
collar.  I  can  picture  him  now  as  he  paced 
solemnly  through  the  streets  of  the  town 
with  corrugated  brow  and  downcast  eyes,  one 


26  Barnstorming 

hand  thrust  into  the  opening  of  his  coat,  the 
other  drawn  behind  his  back,  with  fingers 
twitching  convulsively. 

A  strange  character  was  Rodney,  though 
beheath  his  studied  eccentricity  was  a  heart  of 
gold.  He  set  about  organizing  an  amateur 
dramatic  club  and  invited  me  to  join.  I 
protested  that  I  knew  nothing  about  acting, 
that  in  all  my  life  the  only  plays  I  had  wit- 
nessed were  Uncle  Toms  Cabin  and  The  Gypsy 
Queen.  He  suggested  a  trip  to  Chicago  to 
see  Lawrence  Barrett  in  Richelieu.  We  went 
and  I  fell.  It  was  wonderful.  Before  reach- 
ing the  end  of  our  journey  I  had  promised  to 
take  part  in  the  performance  Rodney  was 
getting  up  of  Ten  Nights  in  a  Barroom.  I 
was  to  be  Willie,  who  gets  killed  by  a  gambler. 
Rehearsals  were  soon  under  way,  directed  by 
the  public  librarian,  once  a  professional  actor. 
The  performance  was  given  for  a  popular 
charity  and  the  opera  house  was  packed. 
There  was  a  storm  of  applause  when  the 
gambler  killed  me.  I  suspected  that  it  was 
because  I  was  such  a  bad  actor,  but  I  was 
flatteringly  mentioned  in  the  newspapers  and 


Barnstorming  27 

some  of  my  friends  said  I  ought  to  go  on  the 
stage. 

Rodney  was  so  elated  with  the  success  of 
our  performance  that  he  decided  to  get  up 
another.  This  was  more  pretentious,  two 
professionals  from  Chicago  playing  the  leading 
characters.  They  were  the  Lords — Louie  and 
James — who  traveled  extensively  through  the 
Western  states  with  a  company  of  which  Louie 
was  the  star  and  her  husband  the  manager. 
She  was  a  versatile  actress  who  played  every 
range  of  character  from  Lady  Macbeth  to 
Topsy.  They  were  organizing  for  a  tour  of 
the  West  and  invited  Rodney  and  me  to  join 
them.  Louie  painted  an  alluring  picture  of 
the  life  of  a  traveling  thespian,  so  we  signed 
contracts  for  a  tour  of  forty  weeks  and  were 
enrolled  as  professional  "barnstormers." 

And  barnstorming  it  was  in  all  that  the  word 
implies.  The  Lords  were  pioneers  on  what 
was  then  the  Western  frontier,  playing  in  the 
principal  towns  of  Iowa,  Nebraska,  Kansas, 
Texas,  and  most  of  the  mining  camps  of  Colo- 
rado and  Montana.  In  those  days  few  of  the 
Western  towns  boasted  of  a  theater,  so  we 


28  Barnstorming 

carried  our  own  scenery  and  gave  many  of 
our  performances  in  courthouses,  public 
schools,  and  vacant  stores,  borrowing  lumber 
as  we  went  along  to  build  a  raised  platform  on 
which  we  presented  our  plays.  The  reserved 
seats  were  chairs  carried  from  the  dining-room 
of  hotels,  but  the  ordinary  seats  were  planks 
strung  across  cracker  boxes  and  nail  kegs. 
We  actors  built  the  stage,  hung  the  scenery, 
arranged  the  seats  and  carried  up  the  baggage. 
When  this  labor  was  done  we  distributed  play- 
bills throughout  the  town.  In  the  evening 
we  acted  as  ushers  until  time  to  go  behind 
the  curtain  to  make  ourselves  up  for  the 
performance. 

We  usually  stayed  a  week  in  a  town,  for 
railway  travel  was  expensive  and  trains  uncer- 
tain. Sometimes  we  would  get  away  from  the 
railways  and  travel  across  country  by  team, 
we  actors  perched  on  a  truckload  of  trunks 
and  scenery,  the  ladies  going  ahead  with  the 
manager  in  carriages.  The  hotels  were  mostly 
primitive  and  often  they  were  so  crowded  that 
eight  actors  would  be  compelled  to  sleep  in 
four  beds  that  had  been  crowded  into  one 


Barnstorming  29 

small  room,  standing  on  our  beds  to  dress  and 
performing  our  toilets  in  a  public  washroom. 

Our  repertoire  was  extensive,  for  we  never 
gave  a  play  twice  in  the  same  town.  We  did 
Richard  III,  Lady  of  Lyons,  East  Lynne, 
Damon  and  Pythias,  Lucretia  Borgia,  Mac- 
beth, Rip  Van  Winkle,  Hidden  Hand,  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  and  many  more.  There  was 
nothing  in  dramatic  literature  that  our  mana- 
ger was  too  modest  to  attempt.  The  numeri- 
cal strength  of  his  company  never  stayed  his 
ambition.  If  there  were  not  enough  actors 
to  play  the  different  characters,  some  of  us  had 
to  play  two  or  three.  I  have  seen  the  armies 
of  Richard  and  Richmond  assault  each  other 
in  terrific  combat  when  both  armies  numbered 
seven  men  and  a  girl,  the  latter  dressed  in 
armor  and  wearing  a  bushy  beard. 

Once  when  sickness  and  desertion  had 
reduced  our  company  to  seven,  I  played  Uncle 
Tom  and  three  white  characters,  blacking  my 
face  and  washing  back  to  white  as  occasion 
required.  I  wasn't  eighteen.  Little  Eva  was 
nearly  thirty  and  a  mother.  I  met  her  years 
afterward  in  New  York.     She  had  become  a 


30  Barnstorming 

star  at  a  Broadway  theater,  but  she  didn't 
look  a  year  older  than  when  she  sat  on  my 
knee  in  a  Colorado  mining  camp  and  lisped 
wistfully:  "Uncle  Tom,  sing  to  me  of  the 
angels  bright." 

After  two  seasons  with  the  Lords  I  went 
with  them  to  the  Black  Hills,  where  we  played 
all  winter  in  the  opera  house  that  had  just 
been  erected  in  Deadwood.  It  was  then  the 
liveliest  mining  town  in  the  country.  Fortune 
seekers  were  flocking  from  every  direction. 
Vast  wealth  was  being  dug  from  the  gold 
mines  and  enormous  smelters  were  being 
worked  day  and  night,  converting  the  ore 
into  bullion.  Everybody  had  plenty  of  money 
and  spent  it  freely.  The  miners  patronized 
our  theater  to  the  limit  of  its  seating  capacity 
and  were  enthusiastic  in  their  appreciation. 

I  recall  the  night  "  Calamity  Jane,"  a  noto- 
rious female  desperado,  came  to  see  us  play 
East  Lynne,  She  and  "Arkansaw  Bill," 
equally  famous  as  a  bandit  and  stage  robber, 
occupied  front  seats.  Behind  them  sat  Seth 
Bullock,  afterward  an  intimate  friend  of 
Colonel  Roosevelt.     "Calamity"  was  dolled 


Barnstorming  31 

up  for  the  occasion  in  corduroy  suit  and  som- 
brero and  appeared  to  be  particularly  vain  of 
her  green  kid  gloves.  She  was  not  a  fasci- 
nating lady.  As  soon  as  she  was  comfortably 
settled  in  her  seat  she  bit  a  chunk  from  a  plug 
of  tobacco  and  chewed  as  industriously  as  any 
miner  throughout  the  evening. 

She  and  her  escort  clapped  their  hands  in 
noisy  appreciation  until  Lady  Isabel  eloped 
with  Sir  Francis  and  then  "Calamity"  showed 
her  disapproval  of  the  erring  wife's  conduct 
by  marching  down  to  the  footlights  and  squirt- 
ing a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  over  the  front  of 
Lady  Isabel's  pink  satin  evening  gown.  There 
came  very  near  being  a  rough-house  when  the 
curtain  was  lowered  and  Mr.  Lord  began  to 
voice  a  protest  over  the  indignity  to  his  wife. 
Trouble  was  avoided  by  the  lady  desperado 
tossing  a  handful  of  gold  coin  over  the  foot- 
lights to  pay  for  the  gown  she  had  so  ruthlessly 
desecrated.  Throughout  the  remainder  of  the 
performance  she  chewed  her  cud  in  courte- 
ous silence.  "Arkansaw  Bill"  was  killed  a 
week  afterward  when  he  and  his  band  of 
ruffians  raided  the  little  frontier  town  that  is 


32  Barnstorming 

now  the  capital  of  South  Dakota.  I  read  not 
long  ago  that  "Calamity"  lived  to  be  a  very- 
old  woman.  She  raised  enough  deviltry  to 
have  deserved  hanging  a  dozen  times. 

As  the  season  drew  to  a  close  Johnny  Rod- 
gers,  manager  of  the  opera  house,  engaged  me 
for  another  season.  The  Lords  were  not  to 
remain.  In  the  spring  the  manager  started 
for  Chicago  to  secure  new  talent,  expecting  to 
return  in  two  weeks.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
he  was  still  snow-bound  at  the  end  of  the  stage 
route,  nearly  two  hundred  miles  to  the  east- 
ward, waiting  for  the  railway  to  be  opened 
for  traffic.  The  next  we  heard  of  him  he  had 
been  drowned.  Impatient  to  get  to  Chicago 
and  complete  his  mission,  he  had  ventured 
on  a  long  voyage  down  the  Missouri  River  in  a 
frail  skiff,  hoping  to  reach  Sioux  City  and  get 
a  train  at  that  point  for  Chicago.  His  only 
companion  was  an  Indian.  The  river  was 
choked  with  ice  and  the  skiff  was  crushed  and 
sunk.  The  Indian  alone  escaped.  There  was 
a  lot  of  speculation  at  the  time  as  to  whether 
the  Indian  might  not  have  made  'way  with 
the  venturesome  manager,  who  had  a  large 


Barnstorming  33 

amount  of  money  in  a  belt  around  his  waist. 
His  body  was  never  found. 

When  the  news  of  the  drowning  came,  I  sat 
up  all  night  with  a  hysterical  widow  and  in  the 
morning  awoke  to  a  realization  of  my  own 
predicament,  for  I  was  a  long  way  from  home, 
with  no  opportunity  to  obtain  theatrical 
employment  and  but  few  dollars  in  my  pocket. 
The  fare  to  Chicago  was  more  than  a  hundred 
dollars  and  the  walking  was  bad.  The  mayor 
met  me  that  day  and  said  he  had  been  talking 
with  some  of  the  citizens  and  they  were 
desirous  of  raising  a  purse  to  send  me  home. 
I  declined  the  proffered  charity  and  went  to  a 
newspaper  office  in  search  of  work,  got  a  job 
setting  type  and  in  ten  minutes  had  my  coat 
off  and  sleeves  rolled  up. 

I  didn't  have  to  earn  my  bread  by  setting 
type  more  than  a  couple  of  weeks,  for  the 
editor  was  summoned  East  by  a  death  in  his 
family  and  the  publisher  asked  me  to  fill  the 
chair  until  the  editor  returned.  I  held  the  job 
for  six  months,  earning  enough  to  take  me  to 
Chicago  in  the  drawing-room  of  a  Pullman,  the 
only  accommodation  available  when  I  reached 


34  Barnstorming 

a  railroad,  after  traveling  two  days  and  nights 
across  an  alkali  desert,  riding  the  entire  dis- 
tance on  top  of  a  stagecoach  under  a  blister- 
ing August  sun.  Never  was  anyone  more 
cruelly  sunburned.  The  journey  was  made  in 
response  to  a  telegram,  offering  me  an  engage- 
ment as  leading  man  with  a  company  that  was 
organizing  to  support  a  woman  star  on  a  tour 
of  the  West.  Why  a  manager  should  send  to 
the  far-away  Black  Hills  for  an  actor,  had  me 
puzzled  until  I  found  my  old  friend  Rodney 
was  in  the  company  and  knew  that  it  was 
through  him  that  I  had  been  called.  That 
season  I  essayed  such  trivial  roles  as  Romeo 
and  Claude  Melnotte  and  Armand  Duval. 
Ye  gods !  as  my  mind  flits  back  to  those  days 
when  I  was  a  trouper,  I  marvel  how  I  ever 
escaped  the  hook. 

Comes  now  the  most  important  event  in 
that  period  of  my  life.  On  the  fourth  day  of 
November,  1879,  I  was  married,  six  days  after 
I  became  twenty-one.  She  was  the  sweetest, 
the  truest,  the  most  lovable  woman  I  have 
ever  known;  full  of  fun  and  the  joy  of  living; 
bright,  witty,  and  entertaining.     All  who  knew 


Barnstorming  35 

her  loved  her.  She  was  a  woman's  woman,  a 
zealous  champion  of  her  sex,  with  none  of  the 
petty  jealousies  and  envies  with  which  some 
women  are  afflicted.  I  never  once  heard  her 
speak  unkindly  of  any  of  her  associates.  She 
was  ever  my  best  and  most  dependable  friend, 
my  comforter  in  disappointments  and  worries, 
patiently  indulgent  toward  my  weaknesses, 
proud  of  whatever  success  came  to  me  and 
with  an  abiding  faith  in  my  ability.  In  all  our 
thirty-nine  years  of  married  life  she  never 
wavered  in  her  devotion,  though  many  times 
I  must  have  strained  her  love  almost  to  the 
breaking. 

When  I  did  right  she  encouraged  me;  when 
I  did  wrong  she  forgave  and  kept  on  loving  me. 

We  met  in. the  parlor  of  a  Chicago  hotel. 
The  card  I  sent  to  another  was  given  to  her  by 
a  careless  bell  boy.  There  were  mutual  expla- 
nations and  she  smilingly  withdrew.  We  acci- 
dentally met  again  a  week  later.  I  was  in  a 
long  line  of  ticket  buyers  that  led  to  the  box 
office  of  a  theater.  A  lady  in  front  of  me 
dropped  a  purse  and  I  picked  it  up  and  re- 
stored it.     There  was  a  smile  of  recognition 


36  Barnstorming 

when  she  saw  that  I  was  the  one  to  whose  card 
she  had  responded.  Weeks  went  by  and  again 
we  met,  this  time  in  the  breakfast-room  of  a 
hotel  in  Iowa.  I  had  arrived  late  the  night 
before  to  join  a  theatrical  company.  When 
I  went  down  to  a  late  breakfast  there  was  but 
one  person  in  the  room.  It  was  the  same  lady. 
Fate! 

She  motioned  me  to  a  seat  at  her  table. 
We  were  to  be  with  the  same  company.  It 
was  her  first  season.  She  had  been  a  teacher 
of  elocution  she  told  me,  and  had  turned  to  the 
stage  through  advice  of  theatrical  friends. 
She  was  afraid  she  wasn't  going  to  like  it,  for 
already  there  had  been  some  things  about 
stage  life  that  grated  harshly.  We  tarried 
long  at  our  first  meal.  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  she  was  a  young  woman  of  unusual 
refinement  and  intelligence  and  personally 
very  attractive.  She  had  received  an  excel- 
lent education  and  it  was  only  an  unexpected 
twist  of  fortune  that  had  made  it  necessary  for 
her  to  earn  a  livelihood. 

That  night  I  carried  her  bag  to  the  theater 
and  I  carried  it  back  to  the  hotel  after  the  per- 


Barnstorming  37 

formance.  In  a  little  town  in  the  West,  some 
months  later,  I  persuaded  her  to  become  my 
wife.  She  always  claimed  that  I  tricked  her 
into  marriage.  She  didn't  come  down  to 
breakfast  one  morning  and  I  rapped  on  her 
door  to  ascertain  the  reason,  thinking  she 
might  have  overslept.  She  had  been  ill  nearly 
all  night,  she  told  me,  so  I  brought  her  some 
medicine  and  advised  her  to  remain  quiet  for 
a  few  hours.  That  afternoon,  while  playing 
billiards  with  our  manager,  a  strange  impulse 
came  to  me  and  I  put  the  cue  back  in  the  rack 
without  finishing  the  game. 

"What's  up.?"  asked  the  manager,  surprised 
at  my  quitting  so  abruptly. 

"I'm  going  to  be  married." 

There  was  an  understanding  between  Nellie 
and  me  that  we  would  get  married  at  the  close 
of  our  theatrical  season,  providing  our  affec- 
tions didn't  wane.  I  was  sure  of  myself,  but  I 
wasn't  of  her. 

Accompanied  by  the  manager  I  went  to  the 
home  of  an  Episcopal  clergyman  and  arranged 
for  a  wedding  in  his  house  at  five  o'clock.  It 
was  then  four  and  I  hadn't  asked  the  bride. 


38  Barnstorming 

I  arranged  with  the  manager  to  be  at  the 
clergyman's  house  with  his  wife  to  give  the 
bride  away  and  to  act  as  witnesses.  Then  I 
called  on  the  bride.  She  was  feeling  better 
and  consented  to  go  with  me  for  a  short  walk. 
I  walked  her  to  the  rectory  and  coaxed  her  to 
go  in  with  me.  Even  then  she  didn't  suspect, 
but  when  she  was  in  the  house  and  found  our 
manager  and  his  wife  there  in  their  Sunday 
clothes  and  the  clergyman  in  official  robe,  she 
saw  the  trap  I  had  sprung,  but  she  played  her 
part  of  the  game  and  came  out  with  a  mar- 
riage certificate  tightly  clutched  in  her  hand. 
What  seemed  to  bother  her  most  was  that 
she  wore  a  black  dress. 

"Black  is  an  evil  omen  for  a  bride,"  she 
whispered  to  me  on  our  way  back  to  the  hotel. 
The  manager  had  ordered  the  wedding  supper 
and  we  toasted  my  bride  with  the  first  cham- 
pagne I  ever  drank. 

The  theatrical  company  had  a  disastrous 
tour  and  ended  so  ingloriously  that  we  were 
left  stranded  a  long  way  from  home,  our  sala- 
ries far  in  arrears.  My  bride  and  I  returned  to 
Chicago  on  our  trunks,  the  railroad  company 


Barnstorming  39 

furnishing  transportation  and  holding  our 
baggage  until  redeemed.  I  borrowed  the 
money  to  reclaim  our  trunks,  settled  my  wife 
in  a  hotel  and  started  out  to  look  for  work,  all 
in  one  day. 

My  first  thought  was  to  try  for  a  newspaper 
job  and  when  I  went  home  to  dinner  that  eve- 
ning I  was  a  reporter  on  the  Chicago  Tribune. 
At  the  end  of  my  first  week  I  drew  the  smallest 
pay  of  any  reporter  on  the  staff ;  at  the  end  of 
my  last  week,  four  years  later,  when  I  left  to 
become  city  editor  of  the  Chicago  Times,  I  was 
the  Tribune's  highest  salaried  reporter. 


CHAPTER  III 

CHICAGO    TRIBUNE   DAYS 

I  ENJOYED  my  work  on  the  Chicago  Tribune. 
It  was  the  life  I  had  longed  for  from  boyhood, 
and  I  became  so  fascinated  with  reporting  that 
I  regretted  having  wasted  so  much  time  as  a 
barnstorming  player.  At  first  I  was  given 
only  the  smaller  assignments  to  cover,  but  no 
matter  how  unimportant  the  city  editor  con- 
sidered them  they  were  always  important  to 
me  and  I  seldom  failed  to  make  the  most  of 
my  opportunities. 

It  wasn't  long  until  some  of  my  small  assign- 
ments began  to  develop  into  big  stories,  for 
one  cannot  always  measure  the  value  of  a 
potential  news  tip  from  the  restricted  horizon 
of  a  city  editor's  desk.  I  demonstrated  this 
soon  after  I  joined  the  staff.  A  citizen  tele- 
phoned that  rumors  were  circulating  of  some 

sort  of  trouble  at  the  plant  of  a  big  steel  cor- 

40 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  41 

poration  in  a  southern  suburb.  The  city  editor 
chased  me  out  to  investigate.  He  evidently 
didn't  think  much  of  the  tip,  for  several  of  his 
star  reporters  were  sitting  idle  in  the  office  at 
the  time. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  trip  through  a  nasty 
storm,  but  when  I  got  back  to  the  office  I  had 
the  biggest  news  beat  of  the  year.  The  sheriff 
had  closed  the  plant,  throwing  hundreds  of 
men  out  of  work;  the  concern  was  bankrupt 
and  the  president  of  it  had  fled  to  Europe. 
He  was  a  man  of  great  business  prominence, 
his  wife  a  leader  in  high  society.  I  saw  him 
years  afterward  in  New  York,  wrecked  in 
health,  his  once  brilliant  mind  shattered.  He 
died  in  an  insane  asylum. 

That  was  an  astonished  city  editor  when  he 
lifted  a  bunch  of  copy  from  my  desk  and  read 
what  I  had  written  about  the  collapse  of  the 
steel  corporation.  Through  lack  of  experience 
I  had  neglected  to  tell  him  what  I  had.  He 
was  quickly  alert  to  the  importance  of  it  and 
my  first  big  news  story  filled  a  lot  of  space  on 
the  front  page. 

But  it  isn't  often  that  the  experienced  editor 


42  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

is  caught  napping.  It  is  more  apt  to  be  the 
reporter.  I  recall  that  memorable  night  in  the 
Tribune  office  when  a  reporter  who  had  been 
sent  to  interview  William  H.  Vanderbilt 
strolled  languidly  into  the  office,  and  reported 
that  the  great  railroad  magnate  refused  to 
talk.  His  assignment  had  been  an  important 
one.  The  Nickel  Plate  road,  paralleling  the 
tracks  of  the  Vanderbilt  lines  between  Chicago 
and  Buffalo,  had  just  been  completed  and  the 
financial  pirates  who  conceived  and  carried  to 
a  finish  what  the  public  suspected  was  the 
biggest  gold  brick  game  ever  attempted,  were 
waiting  for  Vanderbilt  to  open  his  money- 
bags and  pay  their  price.  Mr.  Vanderbilt 
had  arrived  that  night  in  his  private  car 
and  the  reporter  was  sent  to  ask  him  what 
he  was  going  to  do  about  it.  It  was  so  late 
when  he  got  back  the  city  editor  had  gone 
home  and  his  assistant,  busy  with  belated 
copy,  simply  nodded  as  the  reporter  turned  in 
a  brief  item  and  said  he  had  failed  to  get  an 
interview. 

With  this  off  his  mind,  the  reporter  strolled 
to  the  telegraph  editor's  room,  in  search  of  a 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  43 

poker  game.  I  was  there,  chatting  with  Tod 
Cowles,  the  night  editor.  It  was  almost  time 
for  the  last  edition  to  go  to  press. 

We  heard  the  reporter  tell  the  poker  players 
how  he  boarded  the  Vanderbilt  car  and  asked 
its  owner  if  he  had  come  to  buy  the  Nickel 
Plate  and  Vanderbilt  had  sneeringly  called 
it  a  "streak  of  rust."  The  reporter  had  in- 
sisted on  getting  an  interview  as  a  matter  of 
"great  public  interest"  and  the  irate  old  mag- 
nate had  arrogantly  exclaimed:  "The  public 
be  damned." 

"The  old  devil  actually  pushed  me  out  of 
the  car  and  slammed  the  door  in  my  face," 
concluded  the  reporter,  as  he  began  to  deal 
the  cards. 

I  saw  an  angry  glitter  in  the  night  editor's 
eyes  as  he  glanced  at  a  proof  containing  a 
brief  item  of  the  railroad  magnate's  arrival. 
He  ordered  the  reporter  to  drop  his  cards 
and  tell  him  every  word  said  on  the  car. 
Then  he  got  as  busy  as  a  boy  killing  rattle- 
snakes. The  most  striking  story  on  the  front 
page  that  morning  was  headed  "The  Public 
be  Damned!"     The  expression  spread  all  over 


44  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

the  world  and  is  still  frequently  quoted,  nearly 
forty  years  afterward. 

On  that  trip  William  H.  Vanderbilt  bought 
the  "  streak  of  rust,"  and  Calvin  S.  Brice, 
General  Samuel  H.  Thomas,  William  B.  How- 
ard, Columbus  R.  Cummings,  and  the  rest  of 
the  crowd,  who  put  this  over  on  him,  divided 
the  swag.  The  deal  netted  them  more  than 
^13,000,000. 

I  got  the  full  particulars  first-hand  from 
Howard,  a  shrewd  financier  who  was  a  genius 
for  making  fortunes  in  daring  manipulations. 
He  gave  me  the  details  of  many  big  financial 
stories.  My  first  trip  to  New  York  was  as  his 
guest,  to  write  about  the  construction  of  the 
Croton  aqueduct,  which  was  then  being  dug. 
He  had  a  $7,000,000  contract  for  the  Tarry- 
town  section.  We  stayed  at  the  Union  League 
Club  for  two  weeks  and  I  frequently  lunched 
there  with  his  financial  associates,  who  amazed 
me  with  the  freedom  with  which  they  discussed 
their  aff^airs  in  my  presence.  My  reportorial 
greed  for  news  fairly  made  me  itch  to  tell  in 
print  some  of  the  things  these  mighty  men 
discussed  so  brazenly.    It  was  my  introduction 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  45 

to  the  life  of  a  millionaire.  The  taste  for 
luxury  I  acquired  in  those  two  weeks  I  never 
got  over. 

One  day,  after  luncheon,  General  Thomas 
confided  to  me  that  he  had  once  been  a  re- 
porter and  he  told  me  something  of  how  he 
accumulated  his  millions.  I  suggested  that 
he  let  me  into  the  secret  of  how  he  did  it. 

"Better  stick  to  reporting,'*  he  said. 
"You're  a  lot  happier  now  than  I  am."  From 
what  I  learned  afterwards  I  am  inclined  to 
think  he  meant  it. 

Some  millionaires  I  have  since  known  were 
far  less  happy  and  far  more  discontented  than 
most  reporters.  One  who  is  rated  high  among 
the  greatest  and  most  successful  in  the  indus- 
trial world  and  is  reputed  to  have  accumulated 
more  than  $100,000,000,  had  to  divorce  his 
beautiful  wife  because  of  her  infatuation  for 
an  aged  gambler.  His  doctor  added  to  his 
woes  by  cutting  off  his  drinks  and  forbidding 
him  to  smoke.  That  was  some  blow  to  a  man 
who  always  drank  champagne  with  his  break- 
fast and  smoked  a  box  of  dollar  cigars  every 
day.    The  doctor  also  put  him  on  a  diet  of 


46  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

plain  food.  Death  was  to  be  the  penalty  of 
disobedience.  What  a  wretchedly  unhappy 
man  he  must  be,  although  he  had  enough 
money  to  ballast  a  battleship,  a  marble  palace 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  another  at  Newport,  and  a 
country  estate  that  a  king  might  envy. 

Another  mighty  man  of  big  finance  was  on 
such  bad  terms  with  his  home  folk  they  would 
scarcely  speak  to  him.  All  the  big  guns  in  the 
Wall  Street  district  feared  him  and  some  say 
he  practically  controlled  the  affairs  of  the 
nation,  bossing  Presidents  and  Cabinet  officers 
and  senators  in  much  the  same  way  that  he 
did  his  chauffeur.  But  he  got  his  one  day  when 
the  wind  slammed  a  door  in  his  face,  driving 
an  amber  and  gold  cigar  holder  so  far  down  his 
throat  that  he  almost  choked  to  death.  It  must 
have  strained  something  in  his  mechanism,  for 
he  had  to  go  abroad  for  treatment.  He  died 
there,  with  only  a  granddaughter,  a  half  dozen 
doctors  and  several  trained  nurses  at  his  bedside. 
The  newspapers  got  out  extras  announcing  his 
death  and  all  the  millionaires  in  Wall  Street 
got  up  and  stretched,  much  as  the  fans  do  at 
the  Polo  Grounds  at  the  end  of  the  seventh. 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  47 

But  I  have  wandered  far  afield  from  the 
newsroom  of  a  daily  paper.  When  I  began  on 
the  Chicago  Tribune,  Joseph  Medill  was  the 
chief  editor  and  principal  owner.  He  was  a 
man  of  big  brains  and  wielded  a  mighty  in- 
fluence. He  belonged  to  the  old  school  of 
journalists.  There  were  few  like  him  then;  I 
know  of  none  now.  He  and  Dana  were  much 
alike,  only  Mr.  Medill  was  more  influential  in 
politics  and  took  a  more  active  interest  in 
municipal  government  and  public  improve- 
ments. It  was  his  great  brain  power  that 
made  the  Tribune  the  most  prosperous  of  all 
newspapers  west  of  New  York,  a  position  from 
which  it  has  never  receded,  though  it  is  no 
longer  dominated  by  its  editor.  Few  who  read 
it  now  know  or  care  who  writes  its  editorials  or 
directs  the  policy.  It  is  just  a  big,  well-greased 
machine  and  the  wheels  roll  round  and  the 
paper  comes  out  with  accustomed  regularity 
no  matter  who  drops  out  from  the  organiza- 
tion. The  indispensable  man  in  a  great  news- 
paper office  no  longer  exists. 

In  those  days  Mr.  Medill  was  almost  as  well- 
known  to  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Chicago 


4^  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

as  Lake  Michigan,  yet  he  was  seldom  seen 
outside  of  his  sanctum.  Conversation  with 
him  was  difficult,  for  he  was  so  deaf  that  he 
couldn't  hear  a  word  without  holding  an  ever 
ready  trumpet  to  his  ear.  He  had  a  trick  of 
turning  his  affliction  to  advantage,  sometimes 
pretending  not  to  hear  when  he  did  and  with- 
drawing his  trumpet  from  his  ear  and  resum- 
ing his  writing  when  he  was  bored  or  didn't 
wish  to  listen. 

I  recall  when  he  was  on  the  witness  stand  in 
a  half-million  dollar  libel  suit  and  insisted  on 
telling  what  he  had  to  say  in  his  own  way. 
In  vain  the  counsel  for  the  plaintiff  tried  to 
stop  him,  but  Mr.  Medill  pretended  not  to 
understand,  haranguing  the  jury  and  present- 
ing his  side  of  the  controversy  in  such  scholarly 
and  logical  fashion  that  verdict  was  returned 
in  his  favor.  Lawyer  Trude,  counsel  for  the 
Tribune,  declared  that  the  case  would  surely 
have  gone  against  him  but  for  the  cleverness 
of  the  editor. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  great  editor.  He  intrusted  to  me 
many  assignments  in  which  he  was  personally 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  49 

interested  and  I  was  never  happier  than  when 
my  efforts  won  his  approval.  He  had  a  way 
of  bestowing  praise  that  stirred  in  the  recipient 
an  ambition  to  do  even  better,  but  he  could 
also  be  snappish  and  make  one  feel  cheap  if  an 
article  did  not  come  up  to  his  expectation. 
Once  he  was  so-  crabbed  with  me  that  I  went 
back  to  my  desk  and  exploded  the  indignation 
I  felt  in  a  letter  of  resignation.  The  next  day 
he  sent  for  me  and  related  an  anecdote  about 
something  that  happened  to  him  in  the  early 
part  of  his  career  and  I  laughed  so  heartily 
that  I  forgot  my  injured  dignity,  for  what  he 
told  me  made  him  out  a  bigger  boob  than  I 
had  been. 

His  brother  Sam  was  managing  editor,  but 
I  came  into  contact  with  him  very  little,  for 
he  was  in  poor  health  and  not  long  after  I  went 
on  the  paper  he  went  to  California  with  his 
close  personal  friend  William  H.  Crane,  the 
comedian,  and  soon  after  his  return  he  died. 
We  all  mourned  him,  for  he  was  popular  with 
the  entire  staff,  but  the  paper  came  out  as 
regularly  as  when  he  was  alive  and  there 
stepped  into  his  managerial  shoes  a  son-in-law 


50  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

of  Joseph  Medill,  Robert  W.  Patterson,  known 
among  his  intimates  as  "Handsome  Bob." 
Most  of  the  staff  looked  upon  his  coming  as 
a  huge  joke.  They  called  him  a  dude  and 
prophesied  that  he  wouldn't  last  six  months. 
He  had  been  given  the  job  simply  because  he 
had  married  the  editor's  daughter,  they 
sneered,  and  they  poked  fun  at  his  faultless 
attire  and  criticized  his  whiskers,  which  he 
parted  in  the  middle  and  brushed  with  much 
care.  But  one  cannot  always  tell  by  the  way 
a  man  grows  his  whiskers  what  sort  of  brain 
power  is  concealed  beneath  his  skull.  Nor  does 
it  infallibly  follow  that  a  man  is  a  fool  because 
he  is  married  to  the  daughter  of  his  boss.  He 
had  barely  got  his  editorial  chair  warm  before 
the  Tribune  began  to  do  things,  bigger  and 
better  than  ever  before.  The  staid  old  way  of 
presenting  news  gave  way  to  a  newer  and 
better  way  and  the  Tribune^  by  brilliant 
strokes  of  enterprise,  made  such  rapid  progress 
that  some  of  its  contemporaries  couldn't  keep 
the  pace  and  dropped  out  of  the  race.  It  was 
Mr.  Medill's  great  brains  that  founded  the 
Tribune  and  placed  it  on  a  solid    foundation 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  51 

but  it  was  Mr.  Patterson's  news  instinct  and 
managerial  ability  that  lifted  the  paper  out 
of  the  rut. 

Some  of  the  old  hacks  on  the  staff  described 
the  new  managing  editor  as  an  "  arrogant  up- 
start," but  I  always  found  him  courteous  and 
kindly,  quick  to  appreciate  efficient  work,  and 
equally  quick  to  condemn  the  slovenly  meth- 
ods and  slothful  ways  of  some  of  the  old-timers 
who  comprised  the  hammer  brigade. 

I  am  told  that  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Medill, 
Mr.  Patterson  began  to  let  down  and  throw 
the  burden  of  responsibility  on  the  shoulders 
of  subordinates  while  he  was  pulling  wires  to 
get  elected  United  States  senator.  He  erected 
one  of  the  costliest  mansions  in  Washington 
and  lived  there  much  of  the  time  during  the 
later  years  of  his  life,  but  he  never  attained 
his  political  ambition.  He  suddenly  dropped 
dead  while  on  a  visit  to  Philadelphia  and  the 
Tribune  is  just  as  progressive  and  prosperous 
as  it  ever  was.  The  paper  is  now  controlled 
by  the  two  grandsons  of  Mr.  Medill.  One  of 
them  was  in  the  Ojai  Valley  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia when  I  was,  a  few  years  ago.     He  star- 


52  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

tied  the  natives  by  chartering  a  stagecoach, 
drawn  by  six  white  horses,  to  convey  him  fifty 
miles  over  the  mountains  to  Santa  Barbara  to 
get  his  hair  cut. 

The  man  on  the  paper  who  most  interested 
me  was  the  city  editor.  He  was  one  of  the 
oddest  characters  I  ever  came  in  contact  with 
and  one  of  the  best-informed  men  on  almost 
every  conceivable  subject.  Eccentric  though 
he  was,  he  was  a  marvelous  developer  of  young 
men.  He  had  a  positive  talent  for  exciting 
their  ambition  and  training  them  to  make  the 
most  of  their  opportunities.  A  demon  for  hard 
work  and  a  slave  to  his  profession,  he  was  in- 
tolerant toward  shirkers.  Some  called  him  a 
"slave  driver,"  but  he  never  asked  one  of  his 
men  to  work  nearly  so  hard  as  he  did  himself. 
He  was  always  the  first  to  show  up  in  the  morn- 
ing and  he  was  almost  the  last  to  leave  at 
night.  The  office  clock  was  less  regular  than 
he  and  from  the  time  he  got  to  the  office  until 
the  paper  went  to  press  he  was  never  idle. 
He  did  more  actual  Work  every  day  than  a 
half-dozen  men  now  perform  in  most  news- 
paper   offices.      For    twenty-seven   years    he 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  53 

worked  sixteen  hours  a  day  and  seven  days  a 
week  without  a  day  off  and  without  once  tak- 
ing a  vacation.  At  the  end  of  twenty-seven 
years*  continual  service,  Mr.  Medill  insisted 
on  his  having  a  vacation. 

Once  before  when  a  holiday  had  been  sug- 
gested, the  city  editor  had  angrily  threatened 
to  resign.  This  time  he  yielded  to  persuasion. 
He  bought  a  fishing  rod  and  what  goes  with  it 
and.  sat  for  a  week  on  a  bridge  that  crosses  the 
Chicago  River,  baiting  his  hook  with  worms 
and  casting  it  into  the  turbid  waters  of  that 
vast  sewer.  He  sat  there  from  sunup  till  sun- 
down for  a  week.  He  didn't  get  so  much  as  a 
nibble  but  at  the  end  of  his  vacation  he  re- 
turned to  his  desk  sunburned  and  happy. 

Fred  Hall  was  his  name.  He  served  through- 
out the  Civil  War  in  the  War  Department  as 
secretary  to  Mr.  Stanton  and,  after  the  rumpus 
between  Stanton  and  President  Johnson,  came 
to  Chicago  and  got  a  job  on  the  Tribune.  I 
don't  think  he  has  been  beyond  the  city  limits 
since.  When  I  last  heard  of  him  he  had  been 
retired  on  a  pension,  after  almost  a  half-cen- 
tury in  the  Tribune  office.    His  wife  had  been 


54  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

horribly  killed  in  a  motor  boat  explosion,  his 
only  daughter  had  married  and  moved  away 
and  he  was  alone  with  his  books  and  his 
memories.  I  know  but  one  man  more  lonely 
than  he  is.    Both  of  us  have  lived  too  long. 

In  fancy  I  can  see  him  as  he  was  in  the  old 
days  when  I  was  a  Tribune  reporter,  crouched 
in  a  chair,  sucking  the  stem  of  a  corncob  pipe 
and  filling  the  air  about  him  with  a  dense  cloud 
of  smoke  while  his  active  brain  created  striking 
features  for  the  next  day's  issue,  sometimes 
tossing  into  the  wastebasket  the  poorly 
written  story  of  some  indolent  reporter  and 
rewriting  it  in  his  own  finished  style.  He  was 
the  first  man  I  ever  saw  use  a  typewriter  in 
the  editorial  room  and  his  nimble  fingers  did 
jigsteps  on  the  keys  as  he  reeled  off  columns  of 
copy.  In  the  office  he  invariably  wore  a  straw 
hat,  summer  or  winter,  a  hat  so  yellowed  with 
age  that  one  might  suspect  he  wore  it  when  he 
came  from  Washington  at  the  close  of  the  war. 
His  office  coat  was  a  seedy  cardigan  jacket,  so 
frayed  and  worn  that  his  shirt  sleeves  showed 
through  the  elbows.  I  never  knew  him  to 
wear  a  different  suit  than  the  one  he  had  on 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  55 

when  first  I  saw  him.  His  beard  was  scraggly 
and  of  many  shades.  Sometimes  his  blue  eyes 
would  beam  with  merriment  through  the 
spectacles  he  always  wore  and  sometimes  they 
stared  at  one  icily  when  a  reporter  stammer- 
ingly  attempted  to  explain  how  he  happened 
to  fall  down  on  his  assignment.  It  was  useless 
to  defend  failure  with  deception,  for  he  seemed 
to  know  instinctively  that  a  lie  was  coming 
before  it  was  formed.  I  sometimes  felt  as  if  he 
could  simply  look  a  man  in  the  eye  and  read 
what  was  in  his  mind. 

He  kept  himself  aloof  from  everyone  except 
his  family  and  the  members  of  his  staff,  yet  he 
had  an  intimate  knowledge  of  nearly  every 
important  person  in  Chicago.  And  he  knew 
their  secrets,  who  and  when  they  married  and 
how  they  got  their  money.  He  knew  the  city 
better  than  all  the  police  force  and  the  letter 
carriers  combined.  He  knew  just  how  long  it 
would  ordinarily  take  a  reporter  to  get  to  any 
part  of  it,  cover  a  story  and  get  back  to  the 
office.  He  could  rattle  off  names  and  dates 
from  memory  of  nearly  every  event  that  had 
taken  place  since  the  "  Big  Fire,'*  and  he  was  a 


56  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

human  encyclopedia  of  a  wider  range  of  sub- 
jects than  I  ever  dreamed  could  be  stored  in 
one  human  brain. 

How  he  acquired  so  much  useful  information 
always  puzzled  me.  He  read  nothing  but 
newspapers  in  the  office,  for  his  time  was  too 
much  occupied  to  permit  him  to  read  books 
and  he  was  never  in  his  home  except  to  eat  and 
sleep.  He  had  no  companions  and  never  went 
anywhere.  He  never  went  to  a  theater,  but 
he  could  repeat  the  plot  of  every  new  play  and 
tell  who  the  actors  were  and  the  parts  they 
played.  The  next  day  after  the  first  perform- 
ance of  Mikado  he  was  humming  "The 
flowers  that  bloom  in  the  spring,  tra  la." 

Some  of  the  men  who  were  reporters  with 
me  at  that  time  afterward  became  famous  in 
literature,  in  other  professions,  and  some  over- 
turned tradition  by  winning  high  places  in 
finance.  Frank  Vanderlip  is  the  most  illus- 
trious success  of  all.  While  reporting  the 
financial  market  for  the  Tribune  he  won  the 
confidence  of  Lyman  Gage  and  when  the  latter 
retired  from  a  bank  presidency  to  become 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  he  appointed  Van- 


Chicago  Tribune  Days  57 

derlip  his  chief  assistant  and  Vanderlip  stepped 
from  there  into  the  National  City  Bank,  where 
he  soon  rose  to  President  and  then  to  Chair- 
man of  the  Board  of  Directors,  recently  re- 
tiring with  more  millions  than  a  barn  would 
hold. 

John  Wilkie  was  also  taken  from  the  Tribune 
by  Mr.  Gage  to  fill  the  important  position  of 
Chief  of  the  Secret  Service,  holding  the  job 
with  distinction  through  several  administra- 
tions and  finally  giving  it  up  to  become  general 
manager  of  the  Chicago  street  railways.  John 
McGovern  and  Stanley  Waterloo  both 
achieved  reputations  as  writers  of  fiction. 
Ted  McPhelim,  described  by  Sir  Henry  Irving 
in  his  memoirs,  as  the  greatest  of  American 
dramatic  critics,  read  and  studied  and  wrote 
until  he  broke  down  completely.  He  was  one 
of  the  gentlest  and  most  lovable  of  all  my  many 
brilliant  associates  and  didn't  deserve  the 
dreadful  fate  that  befell  him.  He  was  yet  a 
young  man  when  he  died  in  an  asylum.  Paul 
Potter,  the  most  humorous  writer  on  the  staff, 
became  famous  as  a  writer  of  plays.    He  still  is. 

Will  Van  Benthuysen,  who  joined  the  staff 


58  Chicago  Tribune  Days 

about  the  time  I  did,  succeeded  Mr.  Patterson 
as  managing  editor  when  Mr.  Medill  died, 
attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Pulitzer  and 
was  lured  to  New  York  as  managing  editor  of 
the  morning  World  at  double  the  salary  he  was 
getting  in  Chicago.  George  Bell,  who  came 
over  from  Ireland  in  the  steerage  and  wrote 
such  a  clever  description  of  his  voyage  that  he 
was  promptly  hired  as  a  reporter  on  the  Trib- 
une, became  one  of  our  shining  stars.  He  also 
felt  the  call  of  the  Metropolis  and  was  many 
years  with  the  Sun.  Like  Ted  McPhelim,  he 
died  insane.  Vance  Thompson,  one  of  our 
brightest  reporters,  later  distinguished  himself 
as  a  Paris  correspondent  and  fattened  his  bank 
account  by  writing  one  of  the  "best  sellers," 
Eat  and  Grow  Thin.  There  was  "Biff"  Hall, 
who  became  a  magistrate;  Charlie  Shuman, 
who  got  rich  building  apartment  houses  in  Los 
Angeles;  Burke  Waterloo,  whom  everyone 
loved  and  who  mystified  all  of  us  by  blowing 
out  his  brains. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MY  FIRST  BIG  "  SCOOP " 

The  escape  of  McGarrigle  from  the  Chicago 
jail  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  score  my  first 
conspicuous  news  scoop.  It  won  me  a  lot  of 
glory  among  the  craft  and  what  was  more 
gratifying,  boosted  my  salary  so  substantially 
that  I  landed  among  the  highest  salaried  men 
on  the  staff,  promoting  me  almost  in  a  twink- 
ling from  a  "cub'*  to  a  "star." 

McGarrigle  had  been  chief  of  police  while 
Carter  Harrison  was  Mayor  and  with  a  change 
of  administration  that  turned  him  out  of 
office,  he  was  appointed  warden  of  the  big 
county  hospital.  There  was  no  more  popular 
man  in  political  life.  Handsome,  courteous, 
and  genial,  he  had  a  host  of  friends.  The  gang 
that  put  him  in  his  new  job  had  an  ulterior 
motive,  for  they  made  him  collector  of  boodle 
for  the  most  corrupt  political  ring  that  ever 

59 


60  My  First  Big  "Scoop" 

infested  the  western  metropolis.  The  ring 
was  made  up  of  those  in  control  of  the  Board  of 
County  Commissioners.  The  graft  was  enor- 
mous. Contracts  were  awarded  without 
regard  to  lowest  bidders  and  the  merchants 
who  furnished  supplies  to  all  of  the  county 
institutions  were  compelled  to  pay  a  big  per- 
centage of  the  amount  of  their  bills  to  the 
boodle  gang.  The  county  was  plundered 
right  and  left,  the  merchants  getting  even  for 
what  they  had  to  give  up,  by  false  invoices, 
short  weights,  and  outrageous  overcharges. 
McGarrigle  did  the  collecting  and  the  ring- 
sters  divided  the  spoils. 

The  county  was  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy 
when  the  newspapers  turned  the  searchlight 
of  publicity  on  the  rascals  and  forced  an  inves- 
tigation by  the  grand  jury.  Eight  or  nine 
county  commissioners  were  hustled  off  to  jail. 
Some  got  away  and  fled  to  foreign  countries. 
McGarrigle  was  indicted  with  the  others  and 
was  the  first  to  go  to  bat.  He  was  promptly 
convicted  and  sentenced  to  a  long  term  of 
imprisonment  in  Joliet  penitentiary.  An 
appeal  was  taken  in  his  case  and  the  courts 


My  First  Big  "Scoop"  6i 

having  refused  to  accept  bail  he  was  kept  in 
jail  until  the  Supreme  Court  could  review  the 
evidence. 

One  Sunday  morning  Chicago  was  startled 
by  the  news  that  he  had  escaped.  Unlike 
most  jail  breakers,  he  didn't  saw  his  way 
through  steel  bars  to  freedom  nor  overpower 
and  disarm  his  guards.  McGarrigle  had 
brains  and  he  used  them  to  open  prison  doors. 
It  was  the  most  unique  getaway  I  ever  heard 
of. 

Canute  R.  Matspn  was  sheriff.  He  was  a 
ponderous  Scandanavian,  big  of  heart  but  with 
sluggish  wits.  It  chanced  that  he  and  McGar- 
rigle were  members  of  the  same  benevolent 
order.  When  McGarrigle  found  this  out  he 
gave  the  high  sign  and  the  grip  and  the  big 
sheriff  fell  into  a  trap.  One  Saturday,  when 
McGarrigle  had  been  in  jail  for  several  months 
he  coaxed  the  sheriff  to  take  him  home  for  a 
visit  with  his  family,  at  the  same  time  getting 
a  hot  bath  and  change  of  clothing.  Not  sus- 
pecting a  trick,  the  sheriff  came  to  the  jail  that 
night  and  conveyed  his  prisoner  to  the  north- 
ern limits  of  the  city  in  a  closed  carriage. 


62  My  First  Big  "  Scoop  " 

Arriving  at  McGarrigle's  home  without  inci- 
dent, the  prisoner's  attractive  wife  brought 
refreshments  and  entertained  the  sheriff  while 
her  husband  retired  to  the  bathroom  with  a 
suit  of  fresh  underwear.  There  was  a  sound 
of  water  running  into  the  tub  and  then  all  was 
still. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  industriously 
and  Mrs.  Garrigle  was  as  vivacious  and  enter- 
taining as  an  anxious  woman  who  is  playing 
a  game  could  be.  The  sheriff  grew  uneasy. 
He  went  to  the  bathroom  door  and  knocked. 
There  was  no  response.  He  tried  the  door 
and  found  it  securely  fastened.  Mrs.  McGar- 
rigle  began  to  laugh.  Then  she  dropped  to  her 
knees  and  prayed  that  her  husband  might  not 
get  caught.  The  sheriff  went  out  of  the  house 
with  a  rush  and  around  to  the  rear.  The 
bathroom  window  was  open  and  he  peeped  in. 
The  tub  was  filled  with  water,  there  was  a 
change  of  underwear  on  a  stool,  but  it  was  like 
a  cage  from  which  the  bird  has  flown. 

There  were  exciting  times  in  Chicago  the 
remainder  of  that  night.  The  sheriff  notified 
the  police  and  routed  all  of  his  deputies  from 


My  First  Big  "Scoop"  63 

their  beds  to  search  for  the  fugitive.  The 
only  trace  they  found  was  the  track  of  the 
carriage  wheels  and  the  prints  of  horses'  hoofs 
at  the  rear  of  the  house,  where  some  trusted 
friend  had  waited  for  the  boodler  to  crawl 
through  the  bathroom  window.  Sheriff  Mat- 
son  became  the  laughingstock  of  the  town.  It 
proved  his  political  ruin. 

I  was  in  Captain  Dunham's  tugboat  office 
the  following  day  and  overheard  Superin- 
tendent Sinclair  tell  of  the  mysterious  move- 
ment during  the  night  of  a  schooner  from  her 
mooring  at  Rush  Street  bridge.  The  schooner 
had  taken  on  a  cargo  of  grain  during  the  week 
and  had  been  towed  down  the  river  late  Satur- 
day afternoon,  bound  for  a  Canadian  port  on 
Lake  Ontario.  It  was  the  schooner  Blake. 
Instead  of  proceeding  to  Lake  Michigan  to 
begin  her  long  voyage,  as  a  well-behaved 
vessel  should,  she  had  been  made  fast  to  the 
dock  at  Rush  Street,  unmindful  of  the  fine 
weather  and  fair  wind.  She  lay  there  through- 
out the  afternoon  and  evening.  About  mid- 
night the  bridgetender  saw  a  carriage  roll 
down  to  the  dock.     The  horses  were  jaded 


64  My  First  Big  "Scoop *' 

as  if  from  a  hard  run.  A  tall  man  got  out  of 
the  carriage,  shook  hands  with  one  who 
remained  inside,  and  hurriedly  boarded  the 
Blake.  Immediately  afterward  the  captain 
came  ashore,  walked  to  a  nearby  saloon  and 
excitedly  telephoned  for  a  tug  to  tow  him  out 
to  the  lake. 

"That's  how  McGarrigle  got  away,"  I 
whispered  to  Captain  Dunham  and  I  pledged 
him  not  to  mention  it  until  I  could  complete 
an  investigation  and  write  a  story  for  next 
day's  Tribune. 

On  consulting  Lloyd's  vessel  register  I  found 
that  the  Blake  was  owned  by  Fred  St.  John,  a 
wealthy  shipowner  of  St.  Catherine's,  Canada. 
I  knew  that  a  Doctor  St.  John  was  a  prominent 
member  of  the  medical  staff  at  the  hospital 
where  McGarrigle  had  been  warden,  and  I 
recalled  seeing  him  leave  the  jail  a  few  days 
before  when  I  was  there  interviewing  one  of 
the  imprisoned  boodlers.  It  didn't  take  long 
to  ascertain  that  the  Doctor  was  a  Canadian, 
that  he  came  from  the  town  where  the  owner 
of  the  schooner  lived  and  that  the  owner  and 
he  were  brothers.     My  story  was  now  fairly 


My  First  Big  "Scoop"  65 

complete,  except  for  an  interview  with  Doctor 
St.  John,  whom  I  was  unable  to  locate, 
although  another  reporter  camped  on  his 
doorstep  almost  the  entire  night. 

It  was  an  interesting  story  that  appeared 
in  the  Tribune  the  following  morning.  No 
other  newspaper  had  it.  The  Tribune  hadn't 
been  on  the  streets  long  before  a  squad  of 
sheriff's  men  were  hurrying  by  train  to  the 
Straits  of  Mackinaw,  three  hundred  miles 
away,  through  which  the  Blake  must  pass  after 
sailing  the  length  of  Lake  Michigan.  The 
officers  were  expected  to  intercept  the  schooner 
in  the  narrow  waters  of  the  straits  and  capture 
the  fugitive.  They  had  orders  to  take  him 
dead  or  alive.  They  might  have  been  success- 
ful if  they  hadn't  run  afoul  of  Captain  Johnny 
Freer  and  fallen  victims  to  an  insidious  drink 
called  "cherry  bunce." 

I  figured  that  I  could  take  a  night  train, 
follow  the  sheriff's  men  to  the  straits,  get  there 
ahead  of  the  schooner  and  be  in  time  to  report 
the  capture  of  the  fleeing  boodler,  but  it  so 
happened  that  the  Blake  had  fair  winds  from 
the  hour  she  sailed  from  Chicago  and  she 


66  My  First  Big ''Scoop" 

almost  broke  the  record  for  a  fast  voyage 
through  Lake  Michigan. 

On  the  train  that  took  me  to  Mackinaw  was 
Melville  E.  Stone,  now  general  manager  of 
the  Associated  Press.  He  was  then  one  of  the 
owners  of  the  Chicago  Daily  News  and  a  live 
wire  when  it  came  to  gathering  news.  Accom- 
panied by  the  city  editor  of  his  paper,  he  was 
heading  for  the  straits  to  report  personally  the 
arrest  of  McGarrigle.  I  recall  how  nervous 
I  got  when  the  sleeping  car  porter  confided 
to  me  that  Mr.  Stone  had  sent  a  telegram, 
ordering  that  the  fastest  tug  available  be 
waiting  for  him.  How  could  I  expect  to 
compete  with  such  extravagant  enterprise, 
when  I  had  come  away  with  not  much  more 
than  railroad  fare.?  I  had  overheard  the  city 
editor  scolding  one  of  the  reporters  only  a 
week  before  for  charging  too  many  carfares 
and  telephone  calls.  What  would  he  say  to 
one  who  chartered  a  tugboat .?  I  believed  that 
he  would  expect  his  reporter  to  swim.  When 
we  got  to  Mackinaw  early  the  next  morning,  a 
powerful  tugboat  was  awaiting  the  enterpris- 
ing proprietor  of  the  Daily  News.     I  hoped 


My  First  Big  "Scoop"  67 

he  would  invite  me  to  accompany  him,  but  I 
watched  him  steam  out  from  the  wharf  and 
there  was  a  wicked  grin  on  his  face  as  he  left 
me  disconsolately  wondering  what  I  could  do 
to  keep  from  being  beaten. 

**Are  you  after  McGarrigle  ? "  said  a  voice 
at  my  elbow.  "  If  you  be  you  won't  get  him 
here,  for  the  schooner  he  is  on  slipped  through 
the  straits  at  sundown  last  evening  and  is  well 
on  her  way  down  Lake  Huron." 

"How  is  it  the  Chicago  officers  didn't  cap- 
ture him.?     Didn't  they  get  here  in  time.?" 

"They  got  here  all  right  and  they  hired  a  tug 
and  cruised  about  all  afternoon  until  they 
sighted  a  vessel,  almost  becalmed,  heading 
into  the  straits  from  Lake  Michigan."  My 
good  natured  informant  continued,  "They 
thought  she  might  be  the  one  McGarrigle  is 
on,  so  they  hailed  her  and  went  alongside.  It 
was  Captain  Johnny  Freer's  schooner,  also 
bound  down  the  lakes  from  Chicago.  They 
told  him  of  McGarrigle's  escape  and  Freer 
replied  that  he  left  a  day  ahead  of  the  Blake 
and  there  was  no  good  of  the  officers  looking 
further    before    morning.     He    asked    them 


68  My  First  Big  ''Scoop 


11 


aboard  and  led  them  down  to  his  cabin  and 
opened  some  bottles  of  cherry  bunce.  While 
they  were  getting  soused  Freer  chanced  to  go 
on  deck  and  he  spied  the  Blake  heading  in  with 
a  fine  slant  of  wind.  She  had  every  stitch  of 
canvas  set  and  the  fresh  westerly  wind  was 
driving  her  along  with  the  speed  of  a  yacht. 
It  happens  that  Freer  thinks  a  lot  of  McGar- 
rigle,  because  of  what  he  did  for  his  wife  when 
she  was  sick  in  the  hospital  and  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  the  officers  shouldn't  take  him  if 
he  could  prevent  them.  And  they  didn't. 
Returning  to  the  cabin,  Freer  opened  more 
of  his  cherry  bunce  and  they  drank  until  they 
were  'oreied.'  They  had  to  be  helped  aboard 
their  tug  and  they  have  been  sleeping  ever 
since.  Everybody  around  here  is  laughing 
about  it." 

I  asked  if  there  could  be  any  mistake  about 
the  schooner  having  been  the  Blake. 

"Not  a  chance.  I  have  reported  to  the 
underwriters  every  vessel  that  has  sailed 
through  the  straits  for  the  last  twenty  years. 
Besides,  I  distinctly  made  out  her  name  on 
the  stern  with  my  glasses.     I  rowed  out  and 


My  First  Big  "Scoop"  69 

chinned  with  Johnny  Freer  before  he  got 
under  way  and  he  told  me  how  he  fooled  the 
officers  and  got  them  stewed." 

"What  is  cherry  bunce?" 

"Canadian  brandy,  in  which  wild  cherries 
have  soaked  for  years.  It's  a  favorite  tipple 
with  Canuck  sailing  men,  and  powerful  stuff." 

The  old  vessel  reporter  told  me  that  the 
only  chance  I  had  of  overtaking  McGarrigle 
before  he  landed  in  Canada  was  to  go  to  Port 
Huron  by  rail  and  board  the  Blake  while  she 
was  being  towed  through  the  St.  Clair  River  to 
Lake  Erie.  I  hurried  to  the  railroad  station 
and  found  my  train  had  already  pulled  out. 
I  ran  after  it  faster  than  I  ever  ran  in  my  life, 
grabbed  the  handrail  of  the  rear  car  and  was 
almost  drawn  under  the  wheels.  Trainmen 
dragged  me  to  the  platform  and  cursed  me  in 
their  excitement  for  taking  such  chances. 

As  I  sank  into  a  seat,  gasping  for  breath 
and  trembling  from  exertion,  I  began  to 
speculate  on  the  wisdom  of  what  I  was  doing* 
If  the  garrulous  vessel  reporter  had  mis- 
informed me  about  McGarrigle  having  safely 
run  the  gauntlet  I  would  be  ruined,  for  Stone 


70  My  First  Big  "Scoop " 

and  his  city  editor  would  have  the  story  of  his 
capture  and  no  amount  of  explanation  would 
ever  satisfy  my  editor  that  I  wasn't  a  fool.  I'd 
probably  get  fired  by  telegraph  and  when  I 
returned  to  Chicago  the  boys  at  the  press 
club  would  tab  me  a  boob.  No  other  paper 
would  give  me  a  job,  for  I  hadn't  yet  emerged 
from  the  adolescent  stage  of  reporting.  These 
and  kindred  thoughts  chased  tormentingly 
through  my  agitated  brain  all  that  day  on  the 
long  ride  to  Port  Huron.  I  began  to  liken 
myself  to  the  gambler  who  risks  his  all  on  the 
turn  of  a  card  or  the  cast  of  a  die. 

It  was  night  when  I  arrived  at  Port  Huron 
without  a  dollar.  All  the  money  I  had  when  I 
left  Chicago  had  gone  for  railroad  fare.  I  had 
gone  without  meals  all  day  and  was  without 
the  price  of  a  cab  to  take  me  to  a  hotel.  I 
walked  from  the  depot  and  got  even  by  engag- 
ing the  best  room  in  the  house. 

After  supper  I  telegraphed  a  story  of  the 
cherry  bunce  episode  to  the  Tribune,  adding 
a  personal  note  to  the  editor  that  I  expected 
to  head  off  McGarrigle  and  send  a  complete 
story  of  his  adventures  the  following  day.     In 


My  First  Big  "Scoop'*  71 

an  hour  a  reply  came  from  the  editor.  It 
read: 

"Stone  wires  the  Daily  News  that  McGar- 
rigle  hasn't  passed  through  the  straits  and  is 
not  expected  until  to-night.  You  are  on  the 
wrong  track  and  we  are  beaten.    Come  home." 

Somehow  I  felt  confident  that  no  matter 
what  Mr.  Stone  had  reported  to  his  paper,  the 
fugitive  had  escaped  from  the  sheriff's  men 
and  would  be  within  sight  of  Port  Huron  in 
a  few  hours.  Ignoring  Mr.  Patterson's  curt 
order  to  return,  I  went  down  to  the  docks 
and  negotiated  with  Jimmy  Linn  for  one  of  his 
fastest  tugboats.  We  struck  a  bargain  and 
then  I  asked  for  a  loan.  There  was  no  money 
in  the  tugowner's  safe  that  night,  but  he 
proved  a  friend  in  need  by  driving  me  to  the 
home  of  a  banker  and  persuading  that  amiable 
gentleman  to  open  his  vault.  With  a  fat  roll 
of  bills  in  my  pocket  I  felt  myself  ready  for 
any  emergency. 

I  might  not  have  indulged  in  such  extrava- 
gant expenditure  as  chartering  a  tugboat  if 
Editor  Stone  had  not  taught  me  a  lesson  in 
newspaper  enterprise.     While  he  was  a  news- 


72  My  First  Big  "Scoop" 

paper  owner  and  I  but  a  cub  reporter,  I  had 
staked  my  all  on  landing  that  story  and  I 
argued  that  a  big  bill  for  expenses  couldn't 
make  matters  any  worse  for  me  if  I  were 
beaten. 

All  that  night  I  sat  up  in  Jimmy  Linn*s 
office,  waiting  for  the  break  of  day,  as  nervous 
and  apprehensive  as  the  wretch  who  is  expect- 
ing a  summons  to  the  execution  chamber. 
With  the  first  streak  of  light  in  the  sky  I  was 
aboard  the  waiting  tug  and  we  steamed  out 
into  Lake  Huron.  An  hour  later  we  sighted 
a  tow  of  three  big  grain  vessels,  trailing  astern 
of  a  tugboat,  headed  for  the  entrance  to  St. 
Clair  River.  My  captain  made  out  the 
middle  one  to  be  the  Blake. 

We  ranged  alongside  and  hailed  the  man  at 
the  wheel,  but  he  made  no  response.  Some- 
thing entirely  unexpected  happened  just  then. 
We  saw  two  sailors  run  forward  along  the  deck 
of  the  last  schooner  of  the  tow  and  cast  off 
the  hawser  that  stretched  from  her  bows  to 
the  stern  of  the  Blake,  and  when  her  headway 
was  checked  we  saw  the  crew  lower  a  boat. 
A  tall  man,  muffled  in  a  long  coat  and  carrying 


My  First  Big  "Scoop"  73 

a  valise,  came  from  the  cabin,  swung  over  the 
side  and  dropped  into  the  dinghy.  Two  sail- 
ors began  pulling  for  the  Canadian  shore,  the 
captain  of  the  drifting  schooner  urging  them 
on,  dancing  and  yelling  like  a  rum-crazed 
Comanche. 

"That's  Johnny  Freer,"  exclaimed  my 
captain,  as  he  headed  his  tug  into  the  wake  of 
the  dinghy. 

That  venturesome  little  vesselman  had 
played  another  trick.  I  afterward  learned 
that  when  he  got  rid  of  the  tipsy  officers  in  the 
straits  he  headed  his  boat  down  Lake  Huron 
and  overhauled  the  one  McGarrigle  was  on, 
becalmed  off  Point  Au  Sable;  transferred  the 
fugitive  to  his  own  snug  cabin,  figuring  that 
the  sheriff's  men  might  proceed  by  rail  to  Port 
Huron  in  time  to  head  off  McGarrigle  before 
he  could  reach  Canadian  soil.  The  tug  put  me 
ashore  on  the  Canadian  side  soon  after  McGar- 
rigle got  there  in  the  dinghy,  and  when  he 
found  there  were  no  officers  with  me  he 
accompanied  me  to  a  hotel,  where  he  gave  me 
the  details  of  a  story  that  caused  a  big  sen- 
sation when  it   appeared  exclusively  in  the 


74  My  First  Big  "Scoop" 

Tribune  the  following  morning.  As  the  last 
line  of  it  went  over  the  wires  this  message 
came  back  to  me,  signed  by  the  managing 
editor: 

"Congratulations  and  my  personal  thanks 
for  your  brilliant  story.  You  have  covered 
yourself  with  glory.  It  is  the  biggest  scoop 
in  years.  All  of  us  in  the  office  are  more  than 
delighted  with  your  splendid  achievement. 
You  shall  be  handsomely  rewarded." 

I  couldn't  help  laughing  when  I  read  it. 
Tired  as  I  was,  I  still  had  some  sense  of  humor. 

Mr.  Patterson  kept  me  in  Canada  until  the 
Courts  decided  that  McGarrigle  could  not  be 
extradited.  I  left  him  at  the  home  of  Dr.  St. 
John's  brother,  where  a  lot  of  nervous  politi- 
cians from  Chicago  visited  him,  eager  to  aid  in 
keeping  him  out  of  the  clutches  of  the  law. 
They  had  to  save  their  own  slimy  hides. 
When  I  got  back  to  Chicago  the  managing 
editor  summoned  me  to  his  office,  raised  my 
salary  and  told  me  to  take  a  vacation  of  two 
weeks,  with  a  generous  money  allowance.  As 
he  handed  me  a  money  order  on  the  office 
cashier,  Mr.  Patterson  magnanimously  said: 


My  First  Big  "  Scoop '*  75 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  disobeying  my 
orders." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you 
would  have  done  if,  after  I  disobeyed  your 
orders,  Stone  had  got  McGarrigle  in  the 
straits?"     I  responded. 

It  wasn't  nice  of  me,  but  I  could  afford  to 
be  chesty.     A  laugh  was  his  only  reply. 

The  city  editor  told  me  how  excited  they  all 
were  when  my  story  came  over  the  wires  and 
how  Mr.  Patterson  put  uniformed  watchmen 
in  the  pressroom  and  about  the  building  to 
prevent  rival  newspapers  from  getting  a  copy 
of  the  Tribune  in  time  to  steal  the  scoop.  No 
other  paper  had  so  much  as  a  smell. 

Late  in  the  day  Mr.  Stone,  still  guarding 
the  straits  with  the  sheriff's  men,  telegraphed 
to  his  paper  that  McGarrigle  was  expected 
any  minute  and  gave  instructions  to  hold  a 
working  force  in  the  office  to  handle  a  big 
story  he  expected  to  send  after  the  last  regular 
edition.  The  only  one  in  his  office  that  dared 
tell  him  of  the  Tribune's  scoop  was  Victor 
Lawson,  his  partner,  who  wired  him  to  "  come 
home  and  buy  wine." 


76  My  First  Big  "Scoop'* 

A  year  later  I  traveled  five  thousand  miles 
to  get  another  interview  with  McGarrigle ;  out 
to  the  Pacific  coast  by  rail,  thence  by  steam- 
ship to  Victoria,  another  across  to  Vancouver, 
then  another  long  journey  by  rail  through 
great  masses  of  snow  and  ice  over  the  lofty 
Cascade  Mountains  to  Banff  Hot  Springs, 
where  the  fugitive  had  sought  safety  from 
being  kidnapped  across  the  border.  I  spent  a 
week  with  him  and  the  story  I  wrote  softened 
the  heart  of  Judge  Grinnell,  who  permitted 
McGarrigle  to  return  and  escape  imprison- 
ment by  paying  a  heavy  fine. 

On  that  trip  I  ran  across  another  of  the 
boodle  gang  in  hiding.  He  was  Commissioner 
Johnny  Hannigan.  I  saw  him  hide  his  face 
when  I  entered  a  hotel  in  Vancouver.  He 
was  reading  a  newspaper  and  recognized  me 
the  instant  I  did  him,  jerking  a  newspaper  up 
as  if  to  conceal  himself  from  notice.  I  walked 
over  to  where  he  was  sitting  and  snatched 
the  newspaper  from  his  hands.  He  almost 
hugged  me  with  the  delight  of  seeing  a  familiar 
face,  even  if  it  might  mean  his  betrayal.  He 
had  been  pretty  much  over  the  world  since  he 


My  First  Big'*  Scoop"  n 

ran  away  from  Chicago  to  avoid  arrest  at  the 
time  of  the  boodle  exposure,  I  never  saw  a 
man  more  homesick.  Judge  Grinnell  also  per- 
mitted him  to  return  on  the  same  basis  as 
McGarrigle. 

Lake  navigation  gave  me  another  important 
news  beat  soon  after  that  chase  to  Canada  at 
the  time  McGarrigle  played  his  trick  on  the 
fat-witted  sheriff.  This  time  it  was  an  exclu- 
sive story  from  the  lips  of  the  only  survivor 
of  the  passenger  steamer  Vernon^  which 
foundered  in  the  middle  of  Lake  Michigan 
early  one  winter.  She  went  down  in  a  furious 
snowstorm,  drowning  passengers  and  crew, 
only  one  poor  Swede  seaman  escaping  to  tell 
how  and  when  and  where  it  happened.  I  had 
witnessed  the  launching  of  the  Vernon  the 
previous  spring  and  had  written  an  article  for 
the  Tribune  that  pointed  out  her  faulty  model 
and  construction.  She  was  built  for  speed  and 
with  apparent  disregard  for  safety,  as  sharp 
and  slender  as  a  yacht,  with  cabins  perched 
so  high  that  she  was  an  easy  prey  to  wind  and 
wave.  She  reminded  one  of  a  wedge  as  she 
slid  from  the  ways  into  the  waters  of  the  lake, 


78  My  First  Big  "Scoop" 

flags  flying  proudly,  bands  playing  and  men 
and  women  feasting  and  drinking  champagne 
to  celebrate  the  christening.  Captain  Dun- 
ham, owner  of  many  lake  vessels  and  an  expert 
on  marine  architecture,  stood  by  my  side.  I 
asked  what  he  thought  of  her. 

"  She'll  drown  everyone  aboard  of  her  some 
day"  was  his  sententious  reply.  I  feared  it 
might  be  prophetic. 

Booth,  who  supplied  almost  the  entire  West 
with  oysters  and  fish  in  those  days,  had  built 
the  steamer  to  make  fast  trips  with  passengers 
and  fish  from  the  northern  end  of  Lake  Michi- 
gan to  Chicago.  He  lavished  money  on  her 
construction  and  furnishings  and  was  so  proud 
of  her  that  he  named  the  boat  after  his  only 
son. 

As  lake  navigation  was  drawing  to  a  close 
in  the  beginning  of  winter,  a  terrific  storm 
swept  Lake  Michigan  and  raged  with  unabated 
fury  for  days  and  nights.  When  it  subsided 
some  fishermen  discovered  a  gilded  board  on 
which  the  name  Vernon  was  carved.  It  was 
the  first  intimation  of  disaster.  The  owner 
refused  to  believe  his  boat  was  lost,  insisting 


My  First  Big  *' Scoop"  79 

that  she  probably  had  found  shelter  from  the 
storm  among  the  numerous  islands  at  the  foot 
of  the  lake.  The  bit  of  drift  the  fishermen 
had  brought  in  didn't  shake  his  confidence. 

One  afternoon,  when  all  Chicago  was  excited 
over  the  missing  steamer,  Charlie  Elphicke,  a 
prominent  vessel  owner,  summoned  me  to  his 
office  in  the  Board  of  Trade,  where  he  showed 
me  a  telegram  from  one  of  his  captains,  report- 
ing that  he  had  picked  up  a  raft  from  the 
Vernon,  with  a  live  sailor  and  a  dead  one  frozen 
to  it.  They  were  aboard  of  his  vessel,  which 
had  just  arrived  at  Green  Bay,  in  northern 
Wisconsin,  to  take  on  a  cargo  of  lumber. 
Elphicke  gave  me  a  letter  to  his  captain  at 
Green  Bay  and  promised  not  to  mention  the 
telegram  until  I  could  get  there. 

I  was  in  Green  Bay  at  daybreak  the  follow- 
ing morning  and  found  a  man  to  row  me  out  to 
the  Elphicke  schooner.  The  captain  showed 
me  the  frozen  corpse  beneath  a  tarpaulin, 
related  the  story  of  the  rescue  and  then 
brought  from  his  cabin  the  most  forlorn  human 
wretch  I  ever  beheld.  His  name  was  Axel 
Stone.     He  was  in  such  a  pitiable  plight  that 


80  My  First  Big  "  Scoop  " 

I  quickly  offered  to  take  him  to  Chicago  and 
provide  medical  treatment  in  a  hospital.  The 
captain  agreed  to  this  arrangement  and  helped 
me  get  him  to  the  railroad  station.  His 
limbs  were  so  swollen  he  couldn't  walk  or  even 
stand,  for  he  had  been  frozen  to  the  raft  on 
which  he  escaped,  without  food  or  sleep,  for 
nearly  a  week.  Others  had  been  on  the  raft 
with  him  but  one  by  one  they  perished  and 
were  swept  into  the  lake,  all  save  Axel  Stone 
and  the  dead  man,  both  frozen  so  securely 
the  greedy  waves  couldn't  pry  them  loose. 

While  we  were  at  the  station  waiting  for  a 
train,  an  officious  little  chap,  accompanied  by 
two  policemen,  demanded  custody  of  the  sur- 
vivor. He  was  the  coroner  and  declared  that 
he  would  not  permit  Axel  to  leave  until  after 
the  inquest.  I  pointed  out  the  physical 
condition  of  the  sailor  and  warned  the  coroner 
that  delay  in  getting  him  to  a  hospital  might 
mean  his  death,  but  the  perky  little  official 
had  high  ideals  of  his  duty  and  was  obdurate. 
I  finally  persuaded  him  to  summon  a  jury  and 
hold  the  inquest  on  the  spot. 

When  the  jury  was  assembled,  fearful  that 


My  First  Big** Scoop"  8i 

we  would  miss  the  train  and  fearing  more  that 
Axel  would  be  compelled  to  tell  his  story  for 
local  newspaper  men  to  telegraph  to  Chicago 
ahead  of  our  coming,  I  addressed  the  jury  as 
eloquently  as  I  could,  describing  the  physical 
suffering  of  the  unfortunate  sailor  and 
denouncing  the  coroner  for  "his  heartless 
cruelty  in  imperiling  a  life  for  a  useless  display 
of  authority."  The  jury  applauded  my 
speech  and  the  foreman  announced  that  they 
would  go  on  with  the  inquest  without  the 
witness.  They  even  escorted  us  to  the  train. 
It  was  an  all-day  ride  to  Chicago,  so  I  put 
the  sailor  to  bed  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
parlor  car  and  when  he  was  as  comfortable 
as  he  could  be  made,  he  gave  me  a  thrilling 
narrative  of  the  last  trip  of  the  steamer  Ver- 
non. It  caused  a  big  sensation  when  it 
appeared  in  the  Tribune.  The  sailor  got  well 
in  the  hospital  I  took  him  to  and  earned  the 
five  hundred  dollars  that  carried  him  home 
to  Sweden  by  exhibiting  himself  in  a  dime 
museum. 


CHAPTER  V 

A    MURDER   MYSTERY 

One  day  I  entered  the  Tribune  office  just  as 
a  tip  came  in  of  a  tragedy  in  the  Httle  village 
of  Winnetka,  in  the  northern  suburbs.  Henry 
Lloyd,  an  editorial  writer,  lived  there,  and  his 
wife  had  telephoned  that  old  Mr.  Willson  and 
his  invalid  wife  had  been  found  horribly  mur- 
dered in  their  home.  The  city  editor  directed 
me  to  go  after  the  story  and  I  was  the  first  one 
from  the  city  to  reach  the  scene  of  the  crime. 

I  found  a  crowd  of  excited  villagers  gathered 
at  the  home  of  the  murdered  couple,  but  not 
one  among  them  could  tell  much  more  than 
that  Mr.  Willson  was  president  of  Winnetka, 
and  its  richest  citizen  and  that  Mrs.  Willson 
was  so  eccentric  that  servants  would  not  re- 
main with  them.  For  years  they  had  lived 
alone,  Mr.  Willson  caring  for  his  crazed  wife 

and  doing  the  housework.     He  was  rated  a 

82 


A  Murder  Mystery  83 

millionaire  and  had  the  reputation  among  his 
neighbors  of  being  stingy,  and  a  hard  man  in 
business  deaHngs.  The  murder  was  a  mystery. 
No  clues  had  been  discovered;  no  one  was 
suspected. 

Neal  McKeague,  who  kept  a  butcher  shop 
nearby,  had  been  the  last  to  see  the  old  man 
alive.  He  had  told  how  Mr.  Willson  came  into 
his  shop  the  night  before  and  selected  a  larger 
steak  than  customary  because  he  was  expect- 
ing company  from  Chicago.  I  inquired  for  the 
butcher  and  was  told  that  he  had  taken  an 
early  train  to  the  city,  leaving  immediately 
after  the  tragedy  was  discovered.  He  wouldn't 
be  back  until  night.    His  shop  was  closed. 

The  Willson  homestead  was  an  attractive 
place,  occupying  an  entire  block,  the  large, 
old-fashioned  house  standing  in  the  middle, 
almost  concealed  from  the  street  by  the  great 
elm  trees  with  which  it  was  surrounded.  The 
village  constable  let  me  into  the  house  through 
a  window.  On  the  floor  of  the  living-room  was 
the  body  of  the  murdered  millionaire,  a  bullet 
wound  in  his  breast.  He  had  been  shot 
through  the  heart.     There  were  signs  of  a 


84  A  Murder  Mystery 

violent  struggle.  The  old  man  had  evidently 
made  a  hard  fight  for  his  life.  Furniture  was 
overturned  and  near  the  body  was  an  empty 
metal  box,  in  which  money  and  valuable 
papers  had  probably  been  kept.  Some  of  the 
papers,  deeds  and  mortgages  among  them, 
were  scattered  about  the  room,  tossed  hur- 
riedly aside  by  the  murderer  while  searching 
for  whatever  he  was  after.  There  was  no 
money.    If  there  had  been  it  had  been  taken. 

The  constable  showed  me  a  vest  button  he 
found  on  the  floor  of  the  living-room.  There 
were  broken  threads  in  the  eye  to  which  bits  of 
shoddy  were  clinging.  We  compared  it  with 
the  buttons  of  Mr.  Willson's  vest  and  found  it 
distinctly  different.  Evidently  it  had  been 
wrenched  from  the  vest  of  the  murderer  during 
the  struggle.  I  cautioned  the  constable  to  take 
good  care  of  the  button,  as  it  might  prove 
important  in  identifying  the  murderer.  It 
was  the  only  clue. 

When  the  constable  led  me  to  the  floor 
above  I  was  confronted  with  the  most  grue- 
some sight  I  ever  beheld.  On  a  bed  was  the 
brutally  mutilated  body  of  old  Mrs.  Willson 


A  Murder  Mystery  85 

the  face  horribly  crushed.  Everything  near  it 
was  bespattered  with  blood.  What  struck  me 
as  peculiar  was  that  she  had  not  been  shot  to 
death,  like  her  husband.  There  was  no  sign 
of  a  bullet  wound.  The  implements  with 
which  she  was  slain  were  on  the  floor.  She  had 
first  been  beaten  with  a  pair  of  heavy  tongs  the 
murderer  had  snatched  from  the  fireplace,  and 
when  they  had  come  apart  he  had  used  the 
saber  of  her  dead  soldier  son  that  had  hung  in 
a  scabbard  on  the  wall.  The  scabbard  was 
dented  by  the  savage  blows  that  had  been 
dealt  on  the  poor  woman's  head. 

Assuming  that  both  Mr.  Willson  and  Mrs. 
Willson  had  been  killed  by  the  same  person, 
why  wasn't  the  revolver  used  for  both 
murders  ? 

What  prompted  the  murderer  to  discard  the 
easier  weapon  after  shooting  his  first  victim.? 

Why  was  Mrs.  Willson  so  cruelly  butchered? 

These  were  the  confusing  thoughts  that 
raced  through  my  brain  as  I  gazed  on  the 
sickening  tragedy.  Descending  the  staircase, 
I  noticed  a  blood  smear  on  the  wallpaper,  the 
entire  length  of  the  stairs,  as  if  made  by  a 


86  A  Murder  Mystery 

bloody  raincoat.  It  had  rained  all  of  the  night 
before. 

We  went  into  the  kitchen  to  look  for  indi- 
cations of  company  having  been  there  for 
supper,  but  the  dishes  from  the  evening  meal 
had  been  washed  and  put  away.  Everything 
was  in  order.  We  looked  in  the  refrigerator 
and  searched  the  garbage  can  for  traces  of  the 
steak  the  village  butcher  said  had  been  bought 
in  anticipation  of  visitors  coming  to  supper 
from  Chicago.  There  was  not  a  scrap  of  meat 
to  be  found.  If  company  had  come  from 
Chicago,  they  couldn't  have  remained  long, 
else  how  could  the  dishes  have  been  put  away 
and  no  remaining  signs  of  the  evening  meal 
be  apparent,  between  their  departure  and  the 
coming  of  the  murderer.  Surely,  if  the  visitors 
from  Chicago  had  committed  the  crime,  they 
wouldn't  have  remained  to  clear  away  the 
supper  table  and  wash  and  put  away  the  dishes 
and  silverware.  The  more  I  thought  about 
this  the  more  desirous  I  became  for  the  butcher 
to  return  from  the  city  and  tell  me  what  he 
could. 

The  crime  had  been  discovered  by  a  school- 


A  Murder  Mystery  87 

teacher,  the  only  person  in  the  village  who  was 
privileged  to  come  to  the  Willson  home.  The 
constable  summoned  her  from  the  crowd  to 
tell  me  her  story.  It  wasn't  much.  Mr.  Will- 
son  had  sent  her  a  note  the  previous  evening, 
asking  her  to  come  in  the  morning  and  look 
after  his  wife,  as  he  had  to  go  into  the  city  on 
business.  He  would  go  by  an  early  train,  but 
she  would  find  the  key  to  the  front  door  under 
the  mat.  When  she  got  to  the  house  she  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  blinds  had  not  been 
opened.  The  key  was  not  under  the  mat.  As 
all  of  the  doors  were  locked,  she  lifted  a  win- 
dow sash  and  crawled  into  the  living-room. 
Mr.  Willson  lay  dead  on  the  floor.  There  was 
a  pool  of  blood  near  the  body  and  the  over- 
turned furniture  and  scattered  papers  told  of 
a  tragedy.  She  went  no  farther  and  hurried 
from  the  house. 

The  first  person  she  met  as  she  ran  excitedly 
up  the  street  was  butcher  McKeague.  She 
told  him  what  she  had  discovered,  but  he 
directed  her  to  tell  others  as  he  was  on  his  way 
to  the  depot  to  catch  a  train  for  Chicago. 

She  hurried  on  and  spread  the  news  as  she 


88  A  Murder  Mystery 

went.  This  was  about  all  she  could  tell  me. 
The  only  relative  she  ever  heard  of  was  James 
Appleton  Willson,  a  nephew.  He  was  a  Chi- 
cago real  estate  man,  not  on  good  terms  with 
his  uncle  and  never  visited  at  his  home.  Nor 
were  there  ever  any  visitors.  The  school- 
teacher was  the  only  villager  who  had  been 
permitted  to  enter  the  house  since  Mrs.  Will- 
son  lost  her  mind.  It  was  a  touching  story  of 
a  husband's  devotion  that  she  told  me.  He 
never  left  her  if  he  could  avoid  it,  shutting  his 
home  against  his  neighbors  that  her  demented 
condition  might  not  attract  curious  attention. 
For  years  he  had  cared  for  her  as  tenderly  as  if 
she  had  been  a  sick  child. 

The  next  train  from  Chicago  brought  a 
squad  of  reporters  and  a  half-dozen  Pinkerton 
detectives,  with  Superintendent  Robertson  of 
the  Pinkerton  agency  personally  to  direct  the 
men.  They  began  searching  for  clues  in  the 
usual  way.  When  Neal  McKeague  returned 
from  the  city  he  was  asked  to  tell  about  Mr. 
Willson  coming  to  his  place  for  a  steak  the 
evening  before  and  what  was  said  about  ex- 
pecting visitors.    Robertson  seemed  to  attach 


A  Murder  Mystery  89 

considerable  importance  to  the  statement, 
although  I  told  him  that  I  had  learned  from 
the  station  agent  that  no  strangers  arrived 
on  any  of  the  evening  trains.  The  detectives 
suggested  that  they  might  have  driven  out 
from  Chicago.  It  was  before  the  days  of  motor 
cars.  Drive  twenty  miles  in  a  rainstorm  when 
there  were  numerous  trains !  I  couldn't  recon- 
cile it  with  my  way  of  reasoning. 

I  learned  from  some  of  the  villagers  that  Mr. 
Willson  had  befriended  McKeague,  selling  him 
the  property  where  his  shop  stood  on  the  easy- 
payment  plan  and  loaning  him  the  money  with 
which  to  establish  himself  in  business.  There 
had  been  some  ill  feeling  when  McKeague 
discovered  that  the  lot  where  his  shop  stood 
had  once  belonged  to  the  village  and  that  Mr. 
Willson  couldn't  give  clear  title  to  it.  The  day 
before  the  tragedy  they  had  words  about  the 
title  in  the  village  post  office  and  Mr.  Willson 
had  angrily  demanded  the  money  that  was 
due  him. 

McKeague  was  a  good-looking  young  Cana- 
dian who  had  been  employed  in  a  shop  where 
Mr.    Willson   formerly    traded.     The    close- 


90  A  Murder  Mystery 

fisted  old  millionaire  fell  out  with  his  butcher 
over  prices  and  partly  out  of  spite  and  to  es- 
tablish a  competitive  shop,  he  set  the  butcher's 
helper  up  in  business. 

What  impressed  me  strongly  was  that  when 
McKeague  was  told  of  the  murder  by  the 
school-teacher  he  hurried  off  to  Chicago  with- 
out stopping  to  investigate.  I  called  his  atten- 
tion to  this  and  he  attempted  to  explain  by 
saying  that  he  had  promised  to  pay  an  over- 
due bill  that  morning  at  a  wholesale  market 
and  he  was  afraid  if  he  delayed  doing  so  his 
meat  supply  would  be  shut  off.  He  gave  me 
the  name  of  the  wholesaler  with  whom  he 
traded  and  the  names  and  addresses  of  persons 
he  had  called  on  during  the  day.  He  appeared 
to  have  perfect  control  and  to  answer  without 
show  of  irritation  any  questions  that  were 
asked  him. 

I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  McKeague 
knew  more  about  the  tragedy  than  he  pro- 
fessed to.  That  night  I  wrote  a  story  that 
pointed  a  finger  of  suspicion  at  McKeague. 

I  followed  up  the  story  the  next  day  by 
visiting  all  of  the  addresses  the  butcher  had 


A  Murder  Mystery  91 

furnished,  and  one  that  he  didn't  mention. 
At  a  wholesale  market  on  North  Clark  Street, 
where  he  was  being  pressed  for  payment  of  a 
bill,  I  learned  that  in  settling  his  account  he 
tendered  a  bank  note  of  large  denomination 
that  had  never  been  creased.  This  further 
excited  my  suspicion,  for  a  village  butcher  was 
not  likely  to  have  so  large  a  bank  note  come 
to  him  in  his  trade  and  the  added  fact  that  it 
had  never  been  creased  by  frequent  handling, 
inspired  a  thought  that  it  had  recently  been  in 
Mr.  Willson's  treasure  box  that  I  had  seen  on 
the  floor  near  his  dead  body. 

Inquiry  revealed  that  at  none  of  the  places 
where  he  visited  did  McKeague  once  mention 
the  shocking  tragedy  that  had  been  uncovered 
a  few  minutes  before  he  came  to  the  city.  I 
reasoned  that  an  innocent  man  would  have 
talked  of  little  else,  particularly  when  the 
victim  was  the  most  important  man  in  his 
home  town  and  his  benefactor. 

The  place  that  he  visited  and  didn't  tell  me 
about,  I  found  by  accident.  After  making  the 
round  of  the  addresses  furnished  by  McKeague 
I  started  for  Winnetka  to  learn  what  the  de- 


92  A  Murder  Mystery 

tectives  had  discovered  during  the  day.  While 
crossing  Wells  Street  bridge  to  reach  the 
Northwestern  railroad  station,  a  tugboat 
darted  from  under  the  bridge,  belching  sooty 
smoke  over  me  and  soiling  my  linen. 

I  stepped  into  a  small  shop  for  a  clean  collar. 
The  clerk  said  my  collar  wasn't  so  badly  soiled 
as  one  a  customer  wore  in  the  previous  morn- 
ing. His  was  stained  with  blood.  I  don't 
know  why  I  asked,  news  instinct,  perhaps, 
but  I  did  ask  what  time  it  was  the  customer 
called  and  the  time  the  clerk  gave  me  corre- 
sponded with  the  arrival  of  the  train  that 
brought  the  butcher  from  Winnetka.  His 
description  of  the  customer  tallied  with  Mc- 
Keague. 

The  clerk  told  me  that  when  the  customer 
removed  the  bloodstained  collar  he  exclaimed : 
"I  was  in  a  hell  of  a  fight  last  night."  After 
putting  on  a  fresh  collar  the  customer  went  to 
the  back  of  the  shop  and  had  a  tailor  replace  a 
missing  button  on  his  vest! 

The  next  morning  the  heading  over  my  story 
on  the  front  page  of  the  Tribune  was:  "Thou 
Art  THE  Man!" 


A  Murder  Mystery  93 

Superintendent  Robertson  was  called  off 
the  case  by  the  Pinkertons  and  in  his  place 
came  blue-eyed  Jim  Maginn,  the  ablest  detec- 
tive I  ever  came  in  contact  with.  He  had 
brains  and  he  knew  how  to  use  them.  Once  he 
struck  a  trail  he  was  as  tenacious  as  a  bull  dog. 
He  had  read  my  story  that  morning  and  he 
followed  up  the  lead. 

In  the  heap  of  ashes  back  of  McKeague's 
shop  Maginn  found  some  metal  buttons  and 
decided  that  the  butcher  had  burned  the  blood- 
stained raincoat  that  smeared  the  wallpaper 
in  the  Willson  home.  Next  he  searched  the 
butcher's  bedroom  and  in  a  closet  found  a 
vest  from  which  a  button  had  been  yanked 
with  such  force  that  it  left  a  hole.  Another 
button,  different  from  the  others,  had  been 
sewed  on  without  much  effort  to  darn  the  hole. 
There  were  stains  on  the  vest  that  looked  like 
blood,  but  this  didn't  count  for  much  as  a 
butcher  might  have  blood  on  any  of  his  cloth- 
ing. The  detective  said  a  chemical  analysis 
of  the  stains  would  determine  if  the  corpuscles 
were  of  human  blood. 

While  Maginn  was  finding  the  vest,  I  got 


94  A  Murder  Mystery 

possession  of  another  important  link  in  the 
chain  of  circumstantial  evidence.  It  was  a 
revolver  with  which  I  shall  always  believe 
McKeague  killed  the  old  millionaire.  I  had 
luncheon  that  day  at  the  home  of  Mr.  Lloyd, 
of  the  Tribune  editorial  staff,  and  Mrs.  Lloyd, 
who  had  taken  an  active  interest  in  the  tragedy 
handed  me  a  small  weapon  she  had  found 
beneath  the  mattress  in  her  maid's  room,  the 
significance  of  which  was  that  Belle  Hagin,  the 
maid,  was  McKeague's  sweetheart.  On  ex- 
amining the  weapon  I  found  that  the  cylinder 
would  not  revolve.  Evidently  the  cylinder 
pin  had  been  lost  and  the  round  nail  that  had 
been  put  in  its  place  prevented  the  cylinder 
from  turning.  One  could  fire  a  single  shot,  but 
the  next  time  the  trigger  was  pressed  the 
hammer  fell  on  the  empty  cartridge.  This 
cleared  up  the  mystery  in  my  mind  as  to  why 
the  murderer  discarded  the  revolver  after 
shooting  Mr.  Willson  and  attacked  the  help- 
less old  woman  with  tongs  and  saber. 

I  reasoned  that  after  the  quarrel  in  the  post 
office,  McKeague  went  to  the  Willson  house, 
where  the  quarrel  was  renewed,  and  that  when 


A  Murder  Mystery  95 

Mr.  Willson  brought  out  his  box  of  valuables 
there  was  a  struggle  and  he  was  shot.  Mrs. 
Willson  heard  the  shot  and  screamed  and 
McKeague,  realizing  that  she  knew  who  killed 
her  husband,  ran  up  the  stairs  to  her  room. 
Unable  to  fire  his  weapon  again,  he  grabbed  the 
first  implement  his  eyes  fell  upon  and  beat 
her  to  death. 

I  hurried  to  Maginn  with  the  revolver  and 
after  telling  him  my  theory,  suggested  that 
McKeague  be  taken  into  custody.  He  didn't 
want  to  make  an  arrest  without  consulting 
Mr.  Pinkerton,  so  he  instructed  his  men 
not  to  lose  sight  of  the  butcher  and  re- 
turned to  Chicago  with  his  newly  discovered 
evidence. 

The  vest  was  turned  over  to  a  famous  micro- 
scopist  and  I  recall  how  excited  I  got  when  the 
vest  was  put  under  a  powerful  glass  and  the 
threads  in  the  eyes  of  the  detached  button 
matched  the  broken  threads  in  the  vest,  for 
under  the  microscope  the  threads  were  mag- 
nified to  the  size  of  a  half-inch  rope.  The 
shreds  of  woolly  fluff  clinging  to  the  torn 
threads  in  the  eyes  of  the  button,  were  identi- 


96  A  Murder  Mystery 

cal  with  the  shade  and  texture  of  the  shoddy 
of  the  vest. 

The  heading  over  my  story  the  next  morn- 
ing was:  "The  Shadow  of  a  Noose." 

Before  noon  McKeague  was  brought  to 
Chicago  and  placed  in  jail.  Although  the  evi- 
dence against  him  was  purely  circumstantial, 
the  general  opinion  was  that  he  would  be 
easily  convicted,  but  Belle  Hagin  helped  to 
save  him  by  testifying  that  she  took  the  revol- 
ver from  him  at  a  party  one  night  when  he  had 
been  drinking,  two  months  before  the  tragedy. 
She  swore  that  it  was  hidden  ever  since  under 
her  mattress  and  was  there  on  the  night  the 
Willsons  were  murdered.  Luther  Laflin  Mills, 
the  then  prosecuting  attorney,  was  blamed  for 
the  acquittal  by  the  newspapers  and  the  criti- 
cism was  not  undeserved,  for  the  prosecutor 
went  away  on  a  long  fishing  trip  in  Canada  and 
did  not  return  to  Chicago  in  time  properly  to 
prepare  the  case  for  trial. 

McKeague  celebrated  his  acquittal  by  get- 
ting drunk  and  a  few  days  later  he  returned 
to  Canada.  Within  a  month  he  was  in  jail  for 
felonious  assault  on  a  woman.     Some  time 


A  Murder  Mystery  97 

after  that  Belle  Hagin  admitted  that  she  didn't 
tell  the  truth  about  the  revolver  at  the  trial 
and  the  Pinkertons  were  about  to  arrest  him 
again  and  put  him  on  trial  for  the  murder  of 
Mrs.  Willson,  but  a  cowboy  spared  them  from 
further  trouble  by  killing  McKeague  in  a  bar- 
room brawl  out  in  North  Dakota. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"star"  reporting 

I  NOW  began  to  get  nothing  but  big  stories 
to  cover.  Frequently  I  was  permitted  to 
select  my  own  assignments  and  often  to  create 
them. 

As  an  illustration  of  what  I  mean  by  creating 
an  assignment,  I  once  clipped  a  five-line  item 
from  an  evening  paper  about  a  band  of  regu- 
lators in  southern  Indiana  that  were  masking 
themselves  and  taking  out  men  and  women  who 
were  loose  in  their  moral  conduct,  tying  them 
to  trees  and  whipping  them  with  hickory 
switches. 

I  traveled  all  day  and  night  to  get  to  the 

scene  of  their  activities  and  was  rewarded  by 

witnessing,  the  first  night  I  was  there,  the  most 

brutal    public    punishment    that    could    be 

inflicted.     The  community  was  made  up  of 

conspicuously  ignorant  people,  and  like  most 

98 


"Star"  Reporting  99 

men  and  women  who  are  densely  ignorant 
and  uncouth,  they  were  harshly  intolerant  in 
dealing  with  the  weaknesses  of  others.  If  a 
man  wouldn't  work  and  neglected  his  family, 
they  took  him  out  at  night  and  whipped  him 
until  he  couldn't  work.  The  regulators  were 
no  respecters  of  sex  and  the  week  before  I 
got  there  they  stripped  and  cruelly  punished 
a  woman  who  didn't  care  for  her  husband  and 
children  as  they  considered  she  should. 

The  night  of  my  arrival  I  was  awakened 
after  midnight  by  a  vigorous  pounding  on  the 
front  door  of  my  hotel.  A  battering  ram 
drove  the  door  from  its  hinges  and  a  crowd 
of  men  came  stamping  up  the  stairway.  A 
door  was  smashed  in,  a  woman  screamed  in 
terror,  there  was  a  struggle  and  loud  curses 
in  the  hallway,  and  then  I  heard  them  all 
going  down  stairs  and  I  knew  they  were 
dragging  a  man  and  a  woman  with  them. 
Peeping  out  of  the  window,  I  saw  in  the  bright 
moonlight  that  more  than  fifty  stalwart  men 
were  grouped  in  front  of  the  hotel  and  that 
every  one  wore  an  enormous  white  mask, 
which  was  simply  a  flour-sack,  with  slits  for 


loo  "Star"  Reporting 

eyes  and  nose,  the  sack  pulled  over  the  head 
and  bunched  on  the  shoulders. 

The  man  and  woman,  still  struggling,  were 
dragged  out  and  quickly  surrounded.  The 
party  then  marched  with  their  victims  to  a 
clump  of  trees,  where  they  were  stripped  of 
their  night  clothes,  tied  to  trees  and  unmerci- 
fully whipped  with  long  switches. 

After  administering  the  punishment,  the 
crowd  melted  slowly  and  silently  away.  I 
talked  with  the  victims  when  they  crawled 
back  to  the  hotel,  their  backs  lacerated.  I 
learned  from  them  that  both  were  married 
but  living  apart  from  their  lawful  mates  and 
that  anonymous  notes  had  come  to  them  in 
the  last  week,  threatening  them  with  a  visit 
from  the  "whip-ups"  if  they  didn't  reform 
their  ways.  I  spent  two  days  getting  stories 
about  this  new  method  of  reforming  folk  and 
when  I  got  back  to  Chicago  I  wrote  a  page 
article,  giving  the  band  the  name  of  "white- 
caps,"  a  name  they  themselves  speedily 
adopted. 

I  visited  another  band  of  so-called  regulators 
of  public  morals  some  time  afterward.    They 


"Star"  Reporting  loi 

had  taken  a  young  girl  who  was  running  wild, 
into  a  vacant  lot,  stripped  off  her  clothing  and 
covering  her  with  a  coat  of  hot  tar  and  a  bag- 
ful of  feathers,  drove  her  away  into  the  night. 
I  reached  the  place  the  following  day,  found 
the  terrified  girl  hiding  in  a  limestone  quarry, 
got  her  story  and  provided  her  with  clothing 
and  shelter.  She  was  only  seventeen.  A 
church  deacon  who  boastfully  admitted  that 
he  was  leader  of  the  ruffians,  gave  me  a  list  of 
all  who  participated  in  the  outrage  and  I 
furnished  it  to  the  prosecuting  attorney, 
together  with  sufficient  evidence  to  indict 
them.  Some  were  sent  to  prison  and  the 
remainder  paid  heavy  fines.  I  caused  the 
girl  to  be  placed  in  an  institution.  I  never 
knew  how  she  turned  out. 

Once  I  witnessed  the  hanging  of  six  murder- 
ers from  the  same  scaffold  in  the  old  Federal 
prison  at  Fort  Smith,  Arkansas.  They  were 
all  outlaws  from  the  Indian  Territory.  At 
another  time  I  was  on  a  passenger  train  in 
Missouri  when  it  was  held  up  and  robbed, 
after  the  bandits  had  blown  up  the  locomotive 
with  dynamite.     They  looted  the  passengers 


102  "Star"  Reporting 

and  carried  away  a  lot  of  plunder  from  the 
express  car,  shooting  and  severely  wounding 
the  messenger.  After  the  train  robbers 
escaped,  I  telegraphed  five  colums  about  it 
in  time  to  catch  the  regular  edition. 

Another  time  I  followed  a  daring  opium 
smuggler  over  the  Canadian  border,  after  he 
had  escaped  from  treasury  agents,  and  inter- 
viewed him  in  a  hotel.  He  talked  freely  to  me 
about  his  adventures,  but  in  all  the  time  I 
was  with  him  he  kept  a  revolver  pointed  at  me. 
He  apologized  for  his  rudeness,  said  he  didn't 
doubt  that  I  was  a  newspaper  man,  but  that 
he  couldn't  afford  to  run  risks  of  being  cap- 
tured. He  had  taken  desperate  chances  the 
night  before  in  attempting  to  visit  his  mother 
and  had  narrowly  escaped  with  his  life.  For 
years  he  had  been  the  most  successful  smug- 
gler of  opium  operating  along  the  Canadian 
border,  belonging  to  a  ring  that  had  its  head- 
quarters on  Vancouver  Island.  The  duty  on 
opium  was  then  ten  dollars  a  pound  and  smug- 
glers found  traffic  in  the  drug  more  lucrative 
than  robbing  banks.  Treasury  agents  had 
been  after  this  elusive  fellow  for  a  long  time, 


"Star"  Reporting  103 

but  although  they  were  often  close  upon  him 
they  always  failed  of  capture.  A  big  reward 
was  offered  for  his  arrest. 

Somehow  the  treasury  men  got  word  that  he 
intended  visiting  his  mother  at  her  home  in 
Michigan  and  a  posse  was  organized  to  head 
him  off  and  get  him,  dead  or  alive.  The  posse 
hid  in  the  woods  near  the  home  of  the  smug- 
gler's mother,  felling  a  tree  across  the  road- 
way to  block  his  progress.  It  was  a  bright 
moonlight  night  when  they  discovered  him 
riding  alone  through  the  woods  on  horseback. 
When  he  came  to  the  obstruction  in  the  road, 
a  voice  commanded  him  to  halt  and  surrender. 
As  he  wheeled  his  horse  to  make  a  dash  for 
liberty,  six  men  rose  out  of  the  bushes  and 
blazed  away  with  their  weapons.  The  horse 
dropped  dead  in  his  tracks,  the  rider  under 
him.  With  six  Federal  officers,  all  armed  and 
ready  to  shoot,  almost  on  top  of  him,  the  nervy 
smuggler  dragged  himself  from  under  the  dead 
horse,  darted  into  a  thicket  and  lost  himself 
in  the  shadows.  Making  his  way  to  the  river, 
he  found  a  boat  and  crossed  to  the  Canadian 
shore.    I  interviewed  him  the  following  day. 


104  "Star"  Reporting 

The  most  singular  experience  I  ever  had 
and  one  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  ex- 
plain satisfactorily  even  to  myself,  came  to  me 
on  the  day  the  Anarchists  were  hanged.  I 
had  been  among  the  earliest  newspaper  men 
to  reach  the  Haymarket  after  the  bomb 
scattered  death  among  a  squad  of  policemen 
sent  there  to  disperse  that  meeting  of  Reds, 
and  I  was  active  in  the  rounding  up  of  the 
leaders  and  the  long  trial  that  followed. 

I  was  assigned  to  write  the  story  of  the 
execution.  It  was  a  nerve-straining  task,  for 
1  had  known  all  of  them  for  years  and  had 
frequently  reported  their  meetings,  long  before 
anyone  suspected  they  were  anything  more 
than  harmless  cranks. 

The  night  before  the  execution,  I  was  among 
a  large  number  of  newspaper  men  that  kept 
the  death  watch  on  the  condemned  and  one 
of  the  first  to  reach  the  cell  of  Louis  Ling, 
when  he  cheated  the  hangman  by  blowing  off 
his  head  with  a  dynamite  cartridge,  exploding 
the  cartridge  between  his  teeth. 

After  a  night  of  sleepless  excitement,  we 
newspaper  men  and  the  spectators  that  held 


"Star"  Reporting  105 

cards  of  admission,  were  summoned  to  the 
execution  chamber  and  I  saw  the  unfortunate 
wretches  I  had  known  so  well  drop  into  eter- 
nity with  broken  necks.  I  had  witnessed 
many  executions  but  this  was  the  most 
horrible.  When  it  was  over  I  was  nauseated 
and  so  faint  I  could  scarcely  drag  myself  to 
the  street.  With  others,  I  went  to  a  nearby 
saloon  and  asked  for  brandy.  I  drank  the  stuff 
and  then  came  oblivion.  In  all  the  years  since 
I  have  never  been  able  to  recall  what  happened 
to  me  afterward,  not  even  leaving  the  saloon. 
When  I  recovered  my  senses  I  was  in  my 
bed  at  home.  The  rising  sun  streamed 
through  the  window  and  I  awoke  with  a  start. 
It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then 
came  the  humiliating  remorse  of  a  drunkard. 
I  had  always  proven  dependable  in  every 
emergency,  but  now  I  had  fallen  down  and 
forever  disgraced  myself.  Worst  of  all,  the 
editor  who  had  trusted  me  must  have  had  a 
difficult  time  whipping  a  story  together  when 
I  failed  to  return  to  the  office.  I  felt  he  could 
never  forgive  me  and  I  buried  my  face  in  the 
pillow  and  cried. 


io6  "Star"  Reporting 

At  last  I  got  up  and  dressed,  so  ashamed  of 
what  had  happened  that  I  sneaked  silently 
out  of  the  house,  hurrying  down  the  street  to 
find  a  paper-carrier  and  ascertain  how  my 
paper  had  fared  when  I  so  treacherously 
betrayed  it.  I  bought  a  complete  set  of  all 
the  various  morning  papers  and  eagerly  began 
scanning  the  Tribune. 

As  I  read  the  story  I  grew  more  and  more 
puzzled.  The  introduction  was  precisely  as 
I  had  planned  to  write  it  and  the  story  de- 
scribed everything  just  as  my  eyes  had  seen 
what  had  taken  place.  There  were  sentences 
that  were  undeniably  mine.  I  was  completely 
mystified,  but  my  mind  was  greatly  relieved. 
It  was  apparent  that  even  if  I  had  failed  in  my 
duty,  the  paper  hadn't  suffered.  The  story 
was  complete  and  was  written  as  well  as  I 
could  have  done  it.  Perhaps  I  had  written  it 
and  was  now  suffering  from  a  trick  of  memory. 
I  wondered  if  that  could  be  possible. 

Hurrying  back  to  my  home,  I  encountered 
the  maid  and  asked  her  what  time  it  was  when 
I  got  in  the  night  before.  She  said  it  was 
shortly  after  ten  o'clock  and  that  I  looked  so 


"Star"  Reporting  107 

pale  and  tired  she  was  worried  about  me.  I 
searched  her  face  in  an  effort  to  discover 
whether  she  suspected  that  I  was  intoxicated, 
but  her  eyes  beamed  nothing  but  sympathy. 
After  breakfast  I  decided  to  go  to  the  office 
and  face  the  music.  In  the  elevator,  I  encoun- 
tered Mr.  Patterson. 

"  You  wrote  a  fine  story  of  the  execution," 
he  said,  putting  his  arm  affectionately  around 
me  and  giving  my  body  a  hug. 

I  thanked  him  with  as  much  modesty  as  I 
could  assume,  but  I  was  too  uncertain  about 
what  had  happened  to  prolong  the  conver- 
sation. Perhaps  the  city  editor  had  con- 
cealed from  his  superior  that  I  had  fallen  down 
on  the  assignment,  until  he  could  have  a  talk 
with  me. 

The  only  way  to  find  out  was  to  put  on  a 
bold  front,  so  I  walked  into  the  local  room  and 
bade  the  city  editor  a  cheery  "good  morning." 

Mr.  Hall's  response  set  my  mind  at  rest. 
He  praised  my  story  unstintedly  and  was 
particularly  gratified  that  I  had  turned  the 
last  of  the  copy  over  to  him  before  nine.  I 
next  went  to  the  proofreaders'  room  and  found 


io8  "Star"  Reporting 

the  copy  I  had  so  unconsciously  written.  There 
was  no  indication  of  trembling  fingers,  nor 
were  there  scratched-out  words  to  betray 
unsteadiness  of  mind.  I  had  never  written 
more  perfect  copy. 

By  cautious  inquiry,  I  learned  that  I  took 
but  a  single  drink  after  the  execution  and  I 
then  went  straight  to  the  Tribune  office,  locked 
myself  in  a  room  and  wrote  steadily  for  eight 
hours  without  a  break.  The  only  way  I  can 
account  for  my  interruption  of  memory  is 
that  I  was  weary  from  excitement  and  loss  of 
sleep,  but  automatically  kept  at  the  task 
before  me  until  it  was  accomplished  and  when 
it  was  and  I  had  a  chance  to  think  about 
myself,  my  tired  brain  collapsed  and  went 
dead.  An  expert  psychologist  might  explain 
it  differently.     I  can't. 

Someone  telephoned  to  the  office  one  day 
that  a  large  lake  vessel,  laden  with  lumber, 
had  been  driven  ashore  near  Miller's  Station, 
a  small  village  in  northern  Indiana.  The 
informant  said  a  storm  was  raging  and  he 
could  see  the  crew  clinging  to  the  rigging, 
frantically  waving  distress  signals.     I  called 


"Star"  Reporting  109 

up  the  Chicago  life-saving  station  and  was  told 
they  were  as  busy  as  hornets  looking  after 
vessels  that  were  in  trouble  off  the  harbor. 
The  captain  said  the  best  he  could  do  would 
be  to  send  one  of  his  men  with  me.  I  met 
his  man  "Ed"  at  the  Michigan  Central. 

The  first  train  out  was  the  Limited.  I  knew 
it  didn't  stop  at  Miller's,  which  was  only  a  flag 
station,  but  I  took  a  chance  and  we  got  on 
the  rear  platform  of  the  last  sleeper.  As  we 
neared  Miller's  I  jerked  the  cord  that  released 
the  air  brakes  and  when  the  train  slackened, 
"Ed"  and  I  hopped  off  and  ran  away  as  fast 
as  our  legs  could  carry  us,  followed  by  curses 
from  the  angry  trainmen. 

Itwasawalkof  three  miles  through  sand  that 
was  ankle  deep  to  the  scene  of  the  wreck.  We 
found  the  vessel  had  pounded  to  pieces  in  the 
breakers,  drowning  all  but  one  of  her  crew. 
The  shore  was  strewn  with  wreckage  and 
lumber  and  the  entire  population  of  the  vil- 
lage, men  and  women,  was  gathering  and  cart- 
ing it  away.  They  told  us  that  the  only 
survivor  had  been  taken  to  a  clubhouse,  two 
miles  away. 


no  "Star"  Reporting 

"  Ed  "  had  on  his  life-saver  uniform  of  blue, 
with  gilt  buttons,  and  I  made  him  pretend  that 
he  was  an  officer,  intimidating  a  man  with  a 
team  to  quit  beach  combing  long  enough  to 
haul  us  to  the  club.  The  survivor  gave  a 
graphic  recital  of  the  wreck  and  we  trudged 
through  the  sand  to  the  railway  station,  only 
to  find  there  were  no  more  trains  to  the  city 
until  morning.  I  wrote  a  story  for  the  paper, 
but  the  "plug"  operator  at  the  station  was  so 
slow  that  I  had  to  turn  in  and  send  most  of 
it  myself  after  I  had  finished  writing.  There 
was  no  hotel.  The  operator  said  he  would 
gladly  invite  us  to  his  house  if  two  of  his 
children  weren't  sick  with  scarlet  fever. 

"Ed"  and  I  went  out  into  the  murky  night 
to  hunt  for  lodgings.  There  was  a  single  light 
glimmering  from  a  small  shack  of  a  house. 
All  the  rest  of  the  village  was  dark.  We  made 
for  the  light  and  a  belligerent,  red-faced 
woman  opened  the  door  wide  enough  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  gilt  buttons  on  "Ed's"  uniform. 
She  may  have  thought  we  had  come  to  arrest 
them  for  carting  away  lumber  from  the  wreck. 
An3rway,  she  would  have  slammed  the  door  in 


"Star"  Reporting  m 

our  faces  if  my  companion  hadn't  interfered 
with  his  foot.  We  pushed  our  way  into  the 
house,  for  it  was  bitter  cold  and  raining  cats 
and  dogs.  I  offered  to  pay  a  dollar  if  she  would 
shelter  us  for  the  night.  The  silver  dollar 
brought  hospitality  and  she  led  us  to  the  attic, 
where  there  was  a  dirty  mattress  and  dirtier 
bedding,  in  one  corner  on  the  floor.  I  dropped 
on  it  as  I  was,  wet  clothing  and  all,  and  was 
soon  fast  asleep.  When  I  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing "Ed"  wasn't  there.  From  behind  a 
curtain  that  was  stretched  across  the  attic, 
came  sounds  of  suppressed  giggling  and  on 
reconnoitering  I  discovered  that  the  venture- 
some life-saver  had  found  playmates,  daugh- 
ters of  our  hostess. 

There  was  another  time  when  a  tip  came  by 
telephone  of  a  vessel  in  distress  off  Hyde  Park. 
It  was  nearly  midnight  when  I  got  there.  A 
few  helpless  men  were  gathered  impotently  on 
the  shore,  watching  the  blazing  signals  as  the 
crew  set  fire  to  oil-soaked  bedding  and  cast  it 
into  the  lake.  I  had  the  idlers  build  a  bonfire 
on  the  beach  to  let  the  wrecked  sailors  know 
that  help  was  coming,  and  hurried  to  a  tele- 


112  "Star"  Reporting 

phone  to  notify  the  life-saving  station.  I  kept 
the  fire  blazing  all  night  and  the  sailors  kept 
signaling  until  they  used  up  everything 
combustible. 

It  was  daylight  when  the  life-savers  came 
with  their  boat  on  a  wagon.  They  had  driven 
nearly  fifteen  miles.  The  boat  was  launched 
and  was  quickly  propelled  through  the  break- 
ers to  the  stranded  vessel.  I  went  with  them. 
As  we  approached  the  wreck  the  sailors 
dropped  into  the  lake  and  were  picked  up.  The 
last  to  be  rescued  was  the  captain.  I  asked 
his  name.  It  was  the  same  as  mine.  If  it 
had  been  Jones  or  Smith  I  don't  suppose  I 
would  now  recall  the  incident,  for  it  was  two 
months  prior  to  the  assassination  of  Garfield 
and  that  was  thirty-nine  years  ago.  I  knew 
the  crazy  slayer  of  our  martyred  President 
when  he  was  a  lawyer  in  Chicago.  His  half- 
brother  was  one  of  my  boyhood  friends. 

The  last  important  story  I  wrote  for  the 
Tribune  was  a  pitiful  domestic  tragedy  that 
culminated  in  a  brain-tortured  wife  shooting 
her  faithless  husband  dead  in  my  arms.  As  I 
recall  the  exciting  events  that  were  woven 


"Star"  Reporting  113 

into  the  story  I  wrote  that  Christmas  eve,  long 
years  ago,  I  am  reminded  of  Joe  McCulIagh's 
definition  of  journalism.  He  was  the  famous 
editor  of  the  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat  for 
many  years,  terminating  a  brilliant  career  by 
plunging  headlong  from  an  upper  window  of 
his  home  early  one  morning,  breaking  his 
neck.  In  delivering  a  lecture  before  a  body  of 
university  students,  he  defined  journalism  as 
"the  art  of  knowing  where  hell  is  going  to 
break  loose  next  and  having  a  reporter  on  the 
spot  to  cover  it." 

I  chanced  to  be  the  reporter  on  the  spot 
when  the  pent-up  hell  that  was  blazing  in  a 
woman's  brain  broke  loose.  The  story  I 
wrote  is  indelibly  fastened  in  my  memory.  I 
would  have  forgotten  it  if  I  could. 

One  day  I  ran  into  Magistrate  Prindiville 
during  the  noon  recess  and  he  told  me  that  he 
had  just  issued  warrants  for  the  arrest  of  a 
business  man  and  the  latter's  sister-in-law. 
He  thought  it  might  prove  an  interesting  story 
for  the  paper  and  suggested  that  I  come  to  his 
courtroom  after  the  principals  had  been 
arrested   and  get   the   details.     All   that  he 


114  "Star''  Reporting 

could  tell  then  was  that  a  few  minutes  before, 
an  excited  little  woman,  accompanied  by  an 
excited  brother,  had  obtained  warrants  for 
the  arrest  of  the  woman's  husband  and  the 
brother's  wife.  It  was  a  complicated  case  of 
infidelity.  Ofl[icers  were  to  make  the  arrests 
during  the  afternoon.  The  magistrate  returned 
to  his  court  long  enough  for  me  to  copy  names 
and  addresses.  The  man  to  be  arrested  was 
William  McCauley;  the  woman  was  Molly 
Mackin. 

I  learned  in  the  city  directory  that  McCau- 
ley was  office  manager  of  a  big  brewing  plant 
on  the  West  Side  and  there  I  went  in  hopes 
of  obtaining  the  story  before  he  was  locked  up. 
At  the  brewery  I  was  told  he  had  gone  away 
that  day  for  his  annual  vacation.  They  gave 
me  his  home  address,  a  flat  building  in  a  quiet 
little  residential  street  called  Arthington  Place. 
When  I  pressed  a  button  in  the  lower  vesti- 
bule, a  woman  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
staircase  on  the  floor  above  and  inquired  what 
I  wished. 

"I  have  called  to  see  Mr.  McCauley,"  I  said. 

"What  is  the  nature  of  your  business.?" 


"Star"  Reporting  115 

*'It  is  entirely  personal.  Kindly  tell  him 
that  a  Tribune  reporter  is  calling." 

"A  reporter,  I  thought  so.  You  may  come 
up." 

She  held  the  door  open  and  motioned  me 
into  the  parlor.  As  I  entered  a  man  came 
from  a  side  room  and  confronted  me.  He  was 
a  handsome  chap,  about  thirty  years  old,  big 
and  muscular.  The  woman  followed  into  the 
parlor  and  stood  there  as  if  eager  to  know 
what  I  intended  asking  her  husband,  perhaps 
more  eager  to  know  how  he  would  reply. 

Her  presence  was  so  embarrassing  I  asked 
the  man  if  I  could  see  him  alone.  He  waved 
me  toward  the  room  he  had  just  come  from 
and  followed  me  into  it.  Without  closing 
the  door  he  brusquely  demanded  what  I 
wanted.  I  hardly  knew  myself.  I  had  to  go 
at  it  almost  blindly. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  about  Mrs.  Mackin,'*  I 
venturingly  began. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know .? "  was  the  angry 
response.  He  was  visibly  agitated  and  was 
making  an  effort  to  control  himself.  His  face 
grew  scarlet.     "What  about  Mrs.  Mack '* 


ii6  "Star"  Reporting 

The  name  died  on  his  lips.  Before  he  could 
complete  it  his  wife  appeared  in  the  open 
doorway  with  a  revolver  in  her  outstretched 
hand.  His  back  was  to  the  door;  I  was  facing 
it.  Before  I  could  warn  him  or  stop  her,  she 
pointed  the  revolver  at  the  back  of  his  head 
and  pressed  the  trigger. 

There  was  a  flash  of  flame  and  the  man  sank 
hmply  into  my  arms  with  a  bullet  in  his  brain. 
He  never  knew,  unless  his  spirit  saw  me 
struggling  with  the  woman  when  it  left  his 
body.  She  made  as  if  to  fire  another  shot,  so 
I  let  him  down  to  the  floor  and  grabbed  her 
wrist,  wresting  the  weapon  from  her   hand. 

"Why  did  you  do  this  dreadful  thing.?'*  I 
asked. 

"  Because  he  has  wrecked  all  of  our  lives." 

I  heard  little  children  crying  with  fright. 

"Our  children,"  she  sobbed.  "What  will 
become  of  them.?" 

The  dying  man  groaned  and  there  were 
choking  sounds  in  his  throat.  I  asked  where 
I  could  find  the  nearest  doctor. 

"Don't  call  one.  He  mustn't  live!  It 
would  be  horrible  after  all  he  has  done." 


"Star'*  Reporting  n? 

There  appeared  to  be  no  likelihood  of  a 
doctor  being  of  service,  but  I  went  after  one. 
A  maid  was  shaking  a  rug  under  the  window 
where  the  shooting  had  taken  place,  but  she 
evidently  hadn't  heard  the  shot,  for  she  calmly- 
directed  me  to  the  home  of  a  nearby  physician. 
The  doctor  wasn't  in  but  his  wife  said  she 
expected  him  any  minute  and  she  would  send 
him  or  telephone  for  another.  I  told  her  the 
case  was  urgent. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  McCauley  apart- 
ment the  front  door  had  been  bolted  from  the 
inside.  There  was  no  response  to  my  knock- 
ing. Something  must  have  given  me  the 
strength  of  a  stevedore,  for  I  threw  myself 
against  the  door  and  burst  the  lock.  I  found 
Mrs.  McCauley  in  the  kitchen  with  her  chil- 
dren. She  had  a  knife  and  was  about  to  use 
it  when  I  took  the  knife  from  her  hand. 

McCauley  was  still  crumpled  up  where  I 
left  him.  I  rolled  him  on  his  back  and  put  a 
pillow  under  his  head,  for  there  was  still  a 
flicker  of  life.  The  queer  gurgling  sounds 
in  his  throat  were  growing  less  distinct  and  I 
knew  he  would  soon  be  done  for. 


ii8  "Star"  Reporting 

Mrs.  McCauley  watched  him  with  apathetic 
calmness.  She  made  no  attempt  to  help, 
except  to  bring  a  flask  of  liquor  when 
requested.  I  tried  to  force  some  of  it  down  his 
throat,  hoping  to  keep  him  alive  until  the 
doctors  came,  but  his  teeth  were  tightly 
clenched  and  I  was  unable  to  pry  them  apart. 

While  waiting  for  the  doctors  she  told  her 
story,  told  it  so  simply  and  with  such  pathos 
that  it  stirred  my  sympathy  more  than  any 
story  of  human  suffering  I  ever  listened  to. 
Two  doctors  came  in  the  midst  of  the  recital, 
but  she  went  on  with  it  to  the  end. 

William  McCauley,  son  of  a  wealthy  widow, 
had  been  educated  for  the  priesthood  but 
before  the  time  came  for  his  induction  his 
mind  changed  and  he  went  into  business.  He 
had  grown  prosperous  when  he  met  Ida 
Mackin,  a  school-teacher,  and  when  they  were 
married  and  settled  in  a  pretty  home,  there 
wasn't  a  cloud  to  mar  their  happiness.  Two 
children  were  born  and  everything  was  serene. 
Along  came  Molly!  She  entered  their  lives 
when  she  became  the  bride  of  sturdy  Harry 
Mackin,  Mrs.  McCauley's  brother.     She  was 


"Star"  Reporting  119 

as  pretty  as  a  doll  and  almost  as  brainless. 
The  families  saw  much  of  each  other,  though 
they  lived  apart,  McCauley  supplied  the 
capital  to  start  Harry  in  business.  Soon 
Molly  had  a  baby.  And  they  all  were  as 
happy  as  they  could  be.  Then  something 
happened. 

When  Harry  Mackin  went  home  from  the 
store  one  evening  Molly  was  gone.  Pinned 
to  a  chair  was  a  note  in  Molly's  familiar 
handwriting.  She  had  gone  away  with  the 
baby  and  would  never  return.  She  asked 
to  be  forgotten  as  one  unworthy.  The  note 
stunned  him.  They  had  never  quarreled  and 
he  had  toiled  unceasingly  that  Molly  might 
have  all  the  finery  her  heart  craved. 

He  hurried  to  the  home  of  her  mother,  but 
found  no  trace  of  Molly  or  baby  and  next  he 
burst  into  the  home  of  his  sister  and  sobbed 
his  grief  into  her  sympathetic  ears.  It  was  as 
mystifying  to  her  as  it  was  to  him,  for  she 
and  Molly  had  been  as  intimate  as  sisters  and 
she  had  never  heard  a  word  of  discontent. 
WiUiam  McCauley  came  home  and  pretended 
great  astonishment  at  what  they  told  him. 


120  "Star"  Reporting 

There  was  no  way  of  explaining  what  Molly 
had  done.  McCauley  suggested  hiring  detec- 
tives and  went  with  Harry  to  an  agency,  direct- 
ing that  no  expense  be  spared  in  searching 
for  the  runaway  wife. 

Weeks  went  by  without  trace  of  Molly  or 
baby.  The  detectives  could  find  nothing 
that  might  help  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her 
disappearance.  The  husband  searched  franti- 
cally day  and  night,  neglecting  his  business 
and  growing  thin  and  pale  with  loss  of  sleep 
and  anxiety.  McCauley  was  ever  sympathetic. 
He  directed  the  activities  of  the  detectives  and 
spent  hours  with  the  grieving  husband  as  they 
blindly  searched  every  part  of  the  city  where 
she  might  be  hiding.  Finally,  he  declared 
that  Molly  must  have  lost  her  mind  and 
plunged  into  the  lake  with  her  baby  in  her 
arms.     There  seemed  no  other  solution. 

Time  dragged  wearily  along  for  young 
Mackin,  until  one  evening  he  unexpectedly 
ran  into  his  brother-in-law  in  the  street. 
McCauley  was  carrying  bottles  of  wine  and 
was  walking  so  hurriedly  he  passed  Harry 
without  recognition.    The  following  day  Harry 


"Star"  Reporting  121 

had  luncheon  with  his  sister  and  asked  for  a 
glass  of  wine.     There  was  none  in  the  house. 

"Didn't  Will  bring  some  home  last  night?'* 
he  asked. 

"Will  hasn't  been  home  for  three  days. 
He  is  out  of  town  on  business." 

The  first  suspicion  that  had  ever  come  to 
him  of  his  brother-in-law's  perfidy  burned  its 
way  into  Harry  Mackin's  brain.  He  recalled 
that  McCauley  had  been  frequently  away 
from  home  of  late.  Business  had  been  the 
excuse.  That  evening  he  was  hidden  in  a 
shadow  when  McCauley  left  the  brewery  and 
hurried  away.  Harry  followed  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street  and  never  lost  sight  of 
him.  McCauley  turned  into  Sangamon  Street, 
stopped  in  front  of  a  flat,  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  for  a  key  and  let  himself  in. 

Harry  saw  a  woman,  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms,  appear  at  an  upper  window  and  draw 
down  the  shade.  Then  he  saw  the  shadow 
of  a  man  and  woman  embracing  silhouette  on 
the  curtain.  It  was  his  own  wife  and  child, 
for  whom  he  had  been  searching  until  he  was 
almost  insane. 


122  *'Star"  Reporting 

His  impulse  was  to  burst  in  the  door  and 
get  revenge,  but  another  thought  came  and  he 
hurried  to  his  sister  and  told  her  of  his  dis- 
covery. It  made  clear  to  her  why  her  hus- 
band had  been  from  home  so  much  of  late  on 
what  he  called  important  business.  She  sug- 
gested that  they  go  together  to  the  Sangamon 
Street  flat  and  kill  them.  The  brother  coun- 
seled waiting  until  morning,  when  he  would 
have  them  arrested  and  sent  to  prison,  a 
punishment  that  would  be  worse  than  death, 
he  argued.  All  that  night,  with  bruised  hearts 
and  tortured  minds,  they  cried  aloud  in  their 
misery,  while  William  McCauley  and  Molly 
Mackin  slept  peacefully,  without  a  thought  of 
the  tragedy  that  was  soon  to  come. 

.In  the  morning  brother  and  sister  went  to 
Magistrate  Prindiville  and  procured  warrants, 
hurrying  on  ahead  of  the  officers,  so  as  to  be 
there  when  the  arrests  were  made.  It  was 
arranged  that  Harry  should  watch  in  front  of 
the  flat  in  Sangamon  Street  and  Mrs.  McCau- 
ley return  to  her  home,  that  she  might  be 
there  if  her  husband  came.  When  he  went 
away,  McCauley  had  promised  to  be  back  that 


"Star"  Reporting  123 

morning.  While  passing  a  pawnshop  she  saw 
a  revolver  in  the  window.  Impulsively  she 
went  in  and  bought  it.  The  pawnbroker  loaded 
the  weapon  and  showed  her  how  to  use  it. 

When  she  got  home  her  husband  was  there. 
She  told  him  that  his  perfidy  had  been  uncov- 
ered and  he  made  no  denial.  He  no  longer 
cared  for  her,  he  said,  for  he  loved  only  Molly 
and  he  and  Molly  were  planning  to  go  far 
away,  where  they  could  be  happy  and  secure 
in  each  other's  love.  He  would  share  his 
savings  with  his  wife  to  provide  for  herself  and 
the  children. 

It  was  then  I  rang  the  doorbell. 

McCauley  died  before  she  had  finished  tell- 
ing me  her  story.  OflScers  came  soon  after 
that,  sent  the  body  to  the  morgue  and  took 
her  to  the  police  station. 

Before  leaving  the  flat  I  ransacked  the  family 
album  for  photographs  of  all  concerned  in  the 
tragedy.  Then  I  hurried  over  to  the  Sanga- 
mon Street  house,  ahead  of  the  officers  and 
interviewed  Molly.  Harry  came  while  we 
were  talking  and  I  had  to  restrain  him  from 
harming  her.     We  all  went  to  the  courtroom, 


124  "Star'*  Reporting 

where  I  explained  to  Magistrate  Prindiville 
what  had  happened.  At  my  request  he  con- 
sented to  release  Molly  on  bail  furnished  by 
her  husband. 

Harry  said  he  would  "see  her  in  hell" 
before  he  would  sign  her  bond,  but  when 
I  suggested  that  it  might  be  prudent  to  do 
what  I  asked,  considering  that  I  was  the  only 
witness  to  the  killing  of  McCauley,  he  yielded. 

I  knew  that  no  other  reporter  had  the  story 
and  I  proceeded  to  bottle  it  up  so  tightly  they 
couldn't  get  it.  I  sent  Molly  away  in  a  cab 
to  a  place  where  she  couldn't  be  found.  Harry 
was  similarly  disposed  of.  Mrs.  McCauley 
had  collapsed  before  they  got  her  to  the 
police  station  and  was  under  the  care  of  a 
doctor.  Magistrate  Prindiville  told  me  he 
was  leaving  the  city  immediately,  to  be  gone 
over  the  holidays.  There  was  no  one  left  to 
feed  the  story  to  other  reporters  except — me. 

I  wrote  five  columns  that  night  that 
appeared  on  the  front  page,  with  photographs 
of  the  principals  and  their  children.  No  other 
paper  contained  more  than  the  police  could 
tell  and  that  was  almost  nothing. 


"Star"  Reporting  125 

At  the  inquest,  two  days  later,  Mrs.  McCau- 
ley  was  too  prostrated  to  tell  her  story  but  I 
related  it  just  as  she  had  told  it  to  me,  giving 
at  the  same  time  a  description  of  what  had 
happened  from  the  time  I  first  entered  the 
McCauley  flat.  The  jury  set  her  free  without 
leaving  their  seats.  Not  long  afterward  she 
and  her  two  children  were  found  dead  in  bed. 
She  had  turned  on  the  gas. 

Molly  Mackin  I  saw  a  year  later  on  the  stage 
of  a  cheap  vaudeville  theatre.  A  magician 
was  performing  a  trick  he  called  "The  Sleeping 
Beauty."  The  beauty  I  recognized  as  the 
frail  and  foolish  Molly.  I  don't  know  what 
became  of  Harry. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    CITY    EDITOR   AT   TWENTY-FIVE 

Just  a  week  after  the  McCauley  homicide, 
I  became  city  editor  of  the  Chicago  Times. 
It  was  a  great  newspaper  when  I  was  a  young- 
ster, but  it  was  subsequently  wrecked  by  in- 
competent management  and  was  finally  ab- 
sorbed by  the  Herald,  as  were  also  the  Record, 
and  the  Inter-Ocean,  and  all  have  since  been 
merged  with  the  Hearst  publication. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  Times  was 

one  of  the  most  enterprising  newspapers  in  the 

West.    A  crisis  came  in  its  career  when  Wilbur 

F.  Storey  suddenly  developed  a  kink  in  his 

overworked  brain  and  neglected  his  editorial 

duties  to  devote  most  of  his  time  and  thought 

to  spiritualism.    He  became  a  fanatic  on  the 

subject,  fell  an  easy  victim  to  charlatans,  lost 

his  mind  completely  and  died  in  obscurity. 

For  awhile  the  paper  ran  along  under  the  loose 

126 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    127 

management  of  his  executors  and  in  the  end 
was  sold  to  James  J.  West,  a  chap  without 
much  newspaper  experience,  but  possessed  of 
some  brains  and  much  gall.  Clint  Snowden, 
his  brother-in-law,  was  a  brilliant  newspaper 
man  who  had  been  city  editor  under  Storey 
and  was  editing  the  Evening  Mail  when  West 
bought  the  Times.  He  had  agreed  to  go  with 
West  as  editor.  They  had  just  assumed  con- 
trol when  my  story  of  the  McCauley  tragedy 
appeared.  West  asked  Snowden  who  the 
Tribune  reporter  was. 

"I  haven't  learned,"  replied  Snowden,  "but 
ril  gamble  it  was  Chapin,  who  landed  that 
McGarrigle  scoop.  He's  the  luckiest  reporter 
I  ever  heard  of.  They  say  he  can  walk  into  a 
news  sensation  blindfolded." 

"Let's  make  him  city  editor  of  the  Times" 
said  West.    "Then  he  can't  scoop  us." 

And  that  is  how  I  came  to  receive  a  note 
the  following  Saturday,  asking  me  to  call  and 
see  West  and  Snowden  about  a  matter  of  per- 
sonal interest.  I  had  been  to  a  fire  and  was 
writing  a  report  of  it  when  the  note  came.  As 
soon  as  my  task  was  finished  I  went  over  to 


128    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

the  Times  office  and  accepted  their  offer,  with 
the  understanding  that  I  was  to  have  control 
of  the  entire  staff  without  interference  and  that 
no  one  should  be  employed  or  dismissed  except 
by  me.  West  insinuated  that  this  was  too 
much  authority  to  confer  on  so  young  a  man, 
but  1  would  come  under  no  other  condition,  so 
he  yielded. 

They  insisted  that  I  take  charge  that  night 
and  I  agreed  to  report  for  duty  in  an  hour.  I 
felt  considerably  embarrassed  when  I  returned 
to  the  Tribune  office  to  quit  without  notice, 
for  I  had  been  kindly  treated  during  the  four 
years  I  had  been  there  and  I  recognized  that 
it  was  the  training  I  had  received  under  Mr. 
Hall  that  had  made  it  possible  for  me  to  land  a 
city  editor  job  at  twenty-five.  Nearly  all  of 
the  city  editors  at  that  time  were  twice  my  age. 
Mr.  Hall  flew  into  a  passion  when  I  told  him 
what  I  had  done  and  parentally  forbade  my 
leaving.  When  I  went  in  to  tell  Mr.  Patterson, 
he  listened  to  me  courteously. 

"I  can't  make  you  city  editor,"  he  said, 
"  but  the  Tribune  will  pay  you  as  much  salary 
as  any  paper,  so  why  not  stay  with  us?'* 


City  Editor  at  Twenty- Five    129 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  salary,"  I  replied, 
"I  don't  even  know  what  my  pay  is  to  be,  for 
I  didn't  ask,  but  I  do  know  that  I  would  very 
much  like  to  boss  that  gang  of  reporters  that 
have  been  calling  me  a  cub  for  four  years." 

Mr.  Patterson  was  big  enough  to  under- 
stand. He  said  he  didn't  think  I  would  like  it 
as  much  as  I  imagined,  but  if  I  grew  tired  of 
the  job  to  remember  there  would  always  be  a 
good  one  waiting  for  me  in  the  Tribune  office. 

The  entire  staff  was  assembled  in  the  local 
rooms  when  I  got  back  to  the  Times  office, 
for  the  news  that  I  was  coming  had  traveled 
fast.  They  were  all  much  older  and  much 
more  experienced  than  I,  and  most  of  them 
were  hostile.  Guy  Magee,  whom  I  was  to 
replace,  gracefully  surrendered  his  desk  and 
turned  to  go,  an  old  man  without  a  job.  I  felt 
a  sharp  twinge  in  my  heart  when  I  saw  his 
white  face  and  realized  what  my  coming  meant 
to  him. 

It  is  the  fate  of  most  newspaper  men.  They 
give  all  that  is  in  them  to  the  service  of  their 
employers  and  when  they  are  old  and  worn- 
out  they  are  cast  adrift,  like  battered  wrecks. 


130   City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

Some  find  a  brief  haven  in  an  obscure  political 
job,  to  be  again  turned  adrift  with  the  next 
change  of  administration.  I  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  what  may  come  to  them  after  that. 
The  luckier  ones  die  young.  Few  remain 
actively  in  harness  as  long  as  I  did.  There 
were  older  men  than  I  on  the  great  newspaper 
where  I  worked  the  last  twenty-seven  years  of 
my  career,  but  they  were  editorial  writers, 
who  came  to  the  office  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  spent  a  couple  of  hours  chatting  with 
their  associates,  another  hour  in  composing  an 
editorial,  and  then  went  home  to  rest. 

As  these  thoughts  come  to  me  I  am  reminded 
of  dear  old  Harry  Scoville,  one  of  the  gentlest 
characters  I  ever  met  in  a  newspaper  office. 
He  was  on  the  Tribune  when  I  was  and  was 
probably  there  before  I  was  born.  He  had 
filled  many  important  positions  but  when  his 
hair  and  beard  grew  white  he  was  relegated  to 
the  exchange  desk,  the  last  anchorage  in  a 
newspaper  office  for  editors  who  are  nearing 
the  toboggan. 

Soon  after  I  went  over  to  the  Times,  word 
came  to  me  that  after  all  of  his  many  years  of 


City  Editor  at  Twenty- Five    131 

service  on  the  Tribune,  old  Harry  had  gone 
into  the  discard.  The  man  who  told  me  about 
it  said  that  an  hour  before  he  had  encountered 
the  cast-off  editor  disconsolately  standing  on 
one  of  the  bridges,  gazing  longingly  down  into 
the  swift,  flowing  waters  of  the  river.  I  asked 
him  to  look  Harry  up  and  send  him  to  me. 

That  evening  I  told  the  white-haired  editor 
how  much  we  needed  a  man  of  his  wide  expe- 
rience and  offered  him  a  better  berth  than  the 
one  he  had  lost  and  it  was  gratefully  accepted. 
His  story  of  what  had  happened  was  that  late 
on  Saturday  night  he  was  summoned  to  the 
office  of  the  managing  editor  and  curtly  told 
that  a  younger  man  had  been  engaged  to  take 
his  place,  but — "because  of  your  long  and 
faithful  services  I  have  secured  you  an  easy 
job  in  the  office  of  the  county  clerk,"  benev- 
olently concluded  the  managing  editor.  It 
was  the  meanest  act  I  ever  heard  associated 
with  Mr.  Patterson's  name.  In  all  the  later 
years  of  my  career  I  never  forgot  what  hap- 
pened to  Harry  Scoville  in  his  old  age. 

The  first  man  I  ever  employed  was  Pete 
Dunne — Finley  Peter  Dunne,  he  importantly 


132    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

called  himself  after  he  won  fame  and  fortune 
with  his  "Mr.  Dooley"  stories.  I  hired  hun- 
dreds of  men  afterwards,  but  Pete  was  always 
my  special  pet,  both  because  I  was  fond  of 
him  and  that  in  hiring  him  I  was  raised  from 
reporter  to  boss.  It  was  my  first  official  act  as 
city  editor. 

I  met  Pete  on  the  street  when  I  was  hurry- 
ing over  to  the  Times  office  to  begin  my  new 
duties.  He  was  just  out  of  high  school  and 
had  written  some  clever  stories  for  the  Daily 
News.  He  agreed  to  join  me  on  the  Times 
the  next  day.  He  became  the  star  man  of  the 
staff  and  in  the  end  succeeded  me  as  city 
editor. 

The  first  man  I  ever  fired  was  a  chap  named 
Scott  and  I  hadn't  been  city  editor  fifteen 
minutes  when  I  did  it.  While  I  was  bidding 
my  predecessor  a  regretful  good-bye,  I  inad- 
vertently overheard  what  some  of  the  report- 
ers in  an  adjoining  room  were  saying  about 
me.  What  they  said  wasn't  complimentary 
and  what  Scott  said  was  so  offensive  that  I 
would  have  been  justified  in  punching  him. 
When  he  coupled  my  name  with  the  most 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    133 

objectionable  epithet  he  could  think  of,  I 
stepped  into  the  room  and  discharged  him. 

"  If  there  are  others  who  share  Scott's  opin- 
ion of  me  you  may  all  ride  down  in  the  same 
elevator,"  I  said,  as  I  turned  back  to  my  desk. 
Scott  went  alone. 

About  a  fortnight  after  I  became  editor  I 
employed  a  young  school-teacher  who  had 
considerable  talent  as  a  writer  and  directed 
her  to  answer  "help  wanted"  advertisements, 
obtain  employment  in  sweatshops  and  facto- 
ries where  girls  worked,  and  write  a  series  of 
articles  on  the  conditions  she  found.  The 
stories  of  her  experiences  and  observations, 
under  the  caption  of  "City  Slave  Girls,"  at- 
tracted wide-spread  attention  and  the  circula- 
tion of  the  paper  increased  so  rapidly  that  the 
presses  were  overtaxed.  Elated  with  her  suc- 
cess, the  young  woman  went  to  New  York, 
showed  clippings  of  what  she  had  done  to  an 
editor,  and  was  promptly  employed  to  repeat 
in  the  Metropolis  what  she  had  done  in  Chi- 
cago. Afterward  she  joined  the  regular  staff 
and  continued  to  do  newspaper  work  until 
she  married  the  editor,  now  a  wealthy  pub- 


134    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

lisher.  They  live  in  a  mansion  in  the  city  and 
have  a  beautiful  summer  home  in  the  country, 
with  all  that  goes  with  it. 

The  success  of  the  "City  Slave  Girls"  made 
such  an  impression  on  Mr.  West,  publisher  of 
the  Times,  that  he  came  to  me  with  the  "yel- 
lowest" suggestion  I  ever  listened  to  in  a  news- 
paper office.  The  inflated  circulation  was 
beginning  to  slump  and  he  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing, he  said,  to  revive  it  and  send  it  higher 
than  ever.  He  was  confident  that  he  had  hit 
upon  the  thing  that  would  do  it.  When  he 
told  me  what  it  was  I  was  so  angry  I  wanted 
to  quit  and  we  came  very  close  to  the  breaking 
point  while  he  was  stubbornly  arguing  that 
what  he  had  in  mind  was  within  the  scope  of 
decent  journahsm. 

What  he  asked  me  to  do  was  to  send  a  man 
and  a  woman  reporter  to  all  of  the  reputable 
physicians  in  the  city,  let  them  pretend  they 
were  sweethearts  and  that  the  girl  was  in 
trouble,  and  offer  to  pay  liberally  for  an  illegal 
operation.  I  pointed  out  to  West  that  sensa- 
tionalism of  that  sort  would  ruin  his  paper. 
He  was  so  inflated  with  the  idea  that  he  sent 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    135 

for  the  editor,  but  Snowden  was  as  much 
opposed  to  it  as  I  had  been.  Both  of  us  flatly 
declared  that  we  would  sever  all  connection 
with  the  paper  before  we  would  suffer  our  pro- 
fessional reputations  to  be  linked  with  such 
indecency. 

For  awhile  nothing  more  was  said  on  the 
subject  and  Snowden  and  I  supposed  that 
West  had  come  to  his  senses  and  dropped  it. 
The  paper  continued  to  lose  circulation  and 
some  of  the  big  advertisers  began  withdrawing 
their  patronage,  the  chief  reason  being  that 
stories  affecting  West's  integrity  were  being 
noised  about. 

One  day  a  note  came  from  West,  directing 
me  to  assign  a  bright  man  and  a  woman  re- 
porter to  report  to  him  for  instructions.  He 
didn't  mention  what  he  wanted  them  to  do 
and  I  didn't  ask.  It  was  my  duty  to  obey  the 
order.  The  reporter  came  back  and  wanted 
to  tell  me  what  the  assignment  was  from  the 
publisher,  but  I  declined  to  listen. 

I  went  into  the  composing  room  shortly 
afterward  and  discovered  a  page  of  type  that 
was  to  go  in  the  next  issue.     It  was  headed 


136   City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

"Chicago  Abortioners."  The  foreman  told 
me  it  had  been  ordered  in  by  the  pubHsher. 
I  hurried  to  editor  Snowden's  room  and  told 
him  about  it.  He  was  as  indignant  as  I.  We 
waited  for  West  to  return  from  a  theater  and 
both  of  us  pleaded  with  him  not  to  print  the 
nasty  stuff,  but  he  obstinately  refused  to  yield 
to  our  arguments,  so  we  both  put  on  our  coats 
and  quit. 

It  was  the  end  of  Snowden's  newspaper 
career.  He  was  an  able  newspaper  man,  but 
he  gave  up  his  profession  and  sacrificed  ambi- 
tion rather  than  depart  from  his  high  ideals. 
I  always  honored  him  for  it.  He  became  a 
Government  Indian  agent  and  the  last  I  heard 
of  him  he  was  old  and  blind.  West  hired 
another  editor,  but  his  paper  never  recovered 
from  the  black  eye  it  got  when  he  attempted 
to  besmirch  reputable  physicians. 

Several  months  after  Snowden  and  I  had 
quit  the  TimeSy  I  met  West  on  the  street  and 
he  asked  me  to  accept  the  position  of  Wash- 
ington correspondent  at  a  liberal  salary,  offer- 
ing to  sign  a  contract  for  three  years  and  give 
me  freedom  of  pen.    Although  I  disliked  the 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    i37 

man,  his  ofifer  was  alluring  in  that  it  would 
bring  me  into  intimate  contact  with  all  that 
was  going  on  at  the  national  capital.  I  had  a 
yearning  for  that  sort  of  work  and  as  there  was 
no  other  opportunity  within  reach  I  smothered 
my  feelings  and  accepted. 

I  went  to  Washington  shortly  before  the 
inauguration  of  President  Harrison  and  re- 
mained a  year.  'Lije  Halford,  the  President's 
secretary,  had  been  my  friend  when  he  was  an 
editor  in  Chicago,  and  he  aided  me  in  getting 
a  foothold  in  Washington  by  introducing  me 
to  many  of  the  most  important  statesmen. 
Senator  Farwell  and  Senator  CuUom,  both  of 
them  from  Illinois,  I  had  known  in  Chicago 
and  I  found  them  obliging  and  helpful.  I 
lived  next  door  to  Senator  Farwell's  home 
and  he  directed  me  to  drop  in  on  him  every 
evening,  and  he  would  stuff  my  notebook  with 
news  that  would  interest  my  readers.  He 
gave  me  many  important  stories  that  no  other 
Chicago  correspondent  got.  Reginald  De 
Koven,  the  musical  composer  who  died  re- 
cently, was  his  son-in-law. 

Senator  Cullom  I  won  by  writing  a  personal 


138    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

article  that  compared  him  to  Lincoln,  to  whom 
he  bore  a  striking  resemblance  in  physical 
characteristics,  if  not  in  mental  equipment. 
It  tickled  his  vanity  so  much  that  he  never 
failed  to  look  me  up  if  he  knew  anything  worth 
printing.  He  was  chairman  of  the  Senate 
Committee  on  Interstate  Commerce  at  that 
time  and  a  most  useful  source  of  important 
news.  So  was  Congressman  Bob  Hitt,  one  of 
the  brightest  minds  among  the  Illinois  delega- 
tion and  always  my  reliable  friend. 

"Uncle  Jerry"  Rusk  was  a  perfect  gold 
mine  of  information.  I  had  known  him  when 
he  was  Governor  of  Wisconsin  and  had  in- 
gratiated myself  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
became  one  of  my  most  valued  friends  when 
Harrison  appointed  him  Secretary  of  Agri- 
culture. He  would  take  notes  at  all  of  the 
Cabinet  meetings  and  read  them  to  me  in  his 
rooms  at  the  Ebbitt  House.  Many  wondered 
how  I  got  so  much  accurate  information  of  the 
secret  meetings  of  the  President  with  his 
Cabinet,  but  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever 
betrayed  my  informant.  He  has  been  dead 
so  many  years  it  no  longer  matters. 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    139 

Blaine  was  ever  icily  unapproachable.  He 
didn't  like  newspaper  men,  except  when  he 
could  use  them  to  his  personal  advantage,  but 
I  found  it  unnecessary  to  court  him,  for  I  was 
on  an  intimate  footing  with  his  son,  who  knew 
most  of  his  father's  secrets  and  kept  me  well- 
posted  on  affairs  connected  with  the  State 
Department. 

Attorney  General  Miller  was  always  affable. 
Sometimes  when  I  exhausted  all  other  sources 
in  trying  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  some  impor- 
tant news  that  no  one  else  would  talk  about, 
I  would  go  to  him  and  he  would  explain  every 
detail.  I  looked  on  him  as  one  of  the  ablest 
and  best-informed  men  in  Washington.  He 
related  to  me  once  an  amusing  personal  story 
of  a  visit  he  made  to  his  old  home  in  Indiana 
during  his  first  summer  in  Washington.  After 
calling  on  friends  in  Indianapolis,  where  he 
and  President  Harrison  had  been  law  partners, 
he  decided  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  town  where  he 
was  born  and  where  he  had  passed  his  early 
boyhood.  It  was  night  when  he  arrived  and 
he  was  the  only  passenger  to  get  off  at  the 
station.    Miller  climbed  on  top  of  the  omnibus 


HO    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

beside  the  driver  and  they  started  for  the  hotel. 
The  driver  had  lived  in  the  town  all  his  life. 

"Know  who  I  am?"  Miller  asked. 

"Yep,  you  and  me  went  to  the  same  school." 

"Indeed!    Well,  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"Yep,  sure  was." 

"Do  you  know  that  I  am  now  Attorney 
General  of  the  United  States?"' 

"Yep." 

"  Folk  here  generally  know  about  it  ? " 

"Yep." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"They  jes  laugh." 

The  remainder  of  the  ride  was  in  silence. 

One  of  the  men  in  public  life  I  esteemed 
most  highly  was  James  S.  Clarkson,  Assistant 
Postmaster  General.  He  had  been  a  promi- 
nent newspaper  man  in  Iowa  and  had  a  fine 
appreciation  of  the  value  of  news.  He  not  only 
knew  news  but  he  came  into  intimate  contact 
with  people  who  created  it,  and  nearly  every- 
thing worth  while  that  came  to  him  was  passed 
on  to  me.  Night  after  night  he  would  slip 
quietly  into  my  office  and  often  with  the 
biggest  news  story  of  the  day. 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    141 

Clarkson  was  one  of  'Lije  Halford's  friends 
and  we  three  played  a  trick  on  the  President 
that  resulted  in  the  appointment  of  Frank 
Palmer  as  Government  Printer.  The  job  is  a 
lucrative  one  and  was  much  sought  after.  The 
Typographical  Union  was  boosting  a  Phila- 
delphia man.  Palmer  had  been  an  editor  on 
the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean  with  Halford,  and 
Tije  was  doing  all  he  consistently  could  to  get 
him  appointed. 

I  called  at  the  White  House  one  day  and 
found  'Lije  agitated  over  charges  that  had  been 
filed  by  the  powerful  Typographical  Union 
that  Palmer  was  editing  a  paper  in  Chicago 
that  employed  non-union  printers.  If  the 
charges  were  proven  Palmer  was  beaten.  I 
explained  to  Halford  that  Palmer  was  working 
for  a  salary  and  had  no  more  to  do  with  em- 
ploying printers  than  I  had  with  hiring  com- 
positors on  the  paper  I  worked  for. 

Shortly  before  midnight  a  messenger  came 
from  the  White  House  with  word  that  the 
President  wished  to  see  me  immediately.  I 
obeyed  the  summons  and  was  conducted  into 
the  President's  private  office,  where  he  sat  so 


142    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

sedate  and  dignified  at  his  desk  that  one 
couldn't  help  wondering  if  he  had  ice  water  in 
his  veins.  He  asked  if  I  knew  to  be  a  positive 
fact  what  I  had  told  Halford  about  Palmer. 
I  assured  him  it  was  and  he  then  asked  me  if 
I  had  means  of  finding  out  for  him  if  the  ap- 
pointment of  Palmer  would  meet  the  approval 
of  the  Typographical  Union  in  Chicago.  I 
replied  that  my  brother  was  a  member  of  the 
union  and  I  could  wire  to  him. 

"Do  so  to-night  and  send  me  the  reply;  I 
will  wait  up  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Harrison.  "But 
do  not  misinterpret  what  I  have  said  as  mean- 
ing that  I  shall  appoint  Mr.  Palmer,"  he  dip- 
lomatically added. 

I  wasn't  sure  of  my  brother,  so  I  wrote  a 
dispatch  such  as  I  wished  him  to  send,  and 
rushed  it  to  my  oflice  in  Chicago,  with  instruc- 
tions that  it  be  repeated  back  to  me.  In  half 
an  hour  it  was  returned  and  was  speeded  to  the 
White  House.  It  read:  "I  am  positive  that 
the  appointment  of  Mr.  Palmer  will  be  most 
acceptable." 

I  sent  another  telegram  that  night  to  Frank 
Palmer,  advising  him  to  get  ready  to  come  to 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    143 

Washington  and  he  had  his  grip  packed  and 
his  ticket  purchased  when,  a  few  hours  later, 
he  was  officially  summoned.  When  he  arrived 
in  Washington  the  following  day  and  received 
his  appointment.  General  Clarkson  piloted 
him  around  to  my  office  and  we  three  had 
dinner  together.  My  brother  was  the  first 
person  to  be  given  a  job  under  him. 

Melville  W.  Fuller,  then  one  of  the  justices 
of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court,  was  one 
of  my  most  dependable  sources  of  important 
news.  He  was  a  Chicago  man  and  not  long 
before  my  coming  to  Washington  he  had  sat 
at  my  desk  in  the  Times  office  waiting  for  news 
to  come  over  our  leased  wire  from  Washington 
that  his  appointment  by  President  Cleveland 
had  been  confirmed  by  the  Senate.  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  first  to  tell  him  that  his 
appointment  had  been  approved  and  first  to 
salute  him  a  justice.  He  mentioned  the  inci- 
dent the  first  time  I  called  on  him  in  Washing- 
ton and  assured  me  that  he  would  be  glad  to 
help  me  all  he  could  with  my  work  as  corre- 
spondent. 

I  have  a  picture  of  him  in  my  mind  as  he 


144   City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

was  that  day  of  my  first  visit.  He  was  in  his 
chamber  in  the  dingy  old  building  that  then 
housed  the  highest  judicial  authorities  of  the 
country,  stretched  full  length  on  a  lounge,  his 
coat  and  vest  flung  carelessly  across  a  chair, 
a  tall  mint  julep  on  a  stand  by  his  side.  He 
was  reading  a  book  and  puffing  into  its  pages 
dense  clouds  of  smoke  from  an  enormous  black 
cigar.  He  closed  the  book  as  I  entered  the 
room,  but  my  eye  caught  the  title.  It  was  the 
Decameron  of  Bocaccio.  I  fancied  he  looked 
as  sheepish  as  my  mother  once  did  when  I 
came  from  the  office  long  after  midnight  and 
found  her  propped  up  in  bed  with  a  copy  of 
the  Italian  novelist's  erotic  stories  of  amorous 
adventure. 

When  I  had  been  almost  a  year  in  Wash- 
ington, a  messenger  boy  came  to  my  home 
early  one  morning  to  tell  me  that  a  "crazy 
man  in  our  hotel  wants  you  to  come  as  quick 
as  you  can." 

I  went  with  him  and  found  my  employer, 
Publisher  West,  pacing  his  room  like  a  caged 
animal.  He  was  almost  hysterical.  I  calmed 
him  as  best  as  I  could  and  after  much  urging 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    i45 

got  him  to  tell  me  what  ailed  him. ,  He  had 
been  hard  pressed  for  money,  he  told  me,  and 
had  issued  duplicate  certificates  of  stock, 
pledging  the  fictitious  securities  for  large  loans 
at  the  banks.  His  irregularity  had  been  dis- 
covered and  prison  was  staring  him  in  the  face. 
He  had  brought  a  suitcase  full  of  money  to 
Washington  and  he  wanted  me  to  go  to  Europe 
with  him.  I  counseled  him  not  to  act  like  a 
madman,  but  to  return  to  Chicago  on  the  next 
train  and  try  to  adjust  his  tangled  affairs 
before  it  was  too  late.  After  much  argument 
he  accepted  my  advice  and  I  saw  him  aboard 
of  a  westbound  train. 

In  a  few  days  word  came  that  a  new  man 
was  in  charge  of  the  Times  and  that  an  editor 
for  whom  I  had  the  utmost  contempt  had  been 
given  editorial  charge.  It  didn't  take  me  long 
to  telegraph  my  resignation  and  follow  it  by 
the  first  train. 

The  day  I  returned  to  Chicago  I  was  in- 
troduced to  a  banker  from  Salt  Lake,  one  of 
the  elders  of  the  Mormon  Church,  who  had 
been  sent  to  Chicago  in  search  of  someone  who 
would  go  to  Utah  and  teach  his  people  modern 


146    Qty  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

methods  of  running  a  political  campaign.  A 
wholesale  merchant  whom  I  had  known  for 
many  years  and  who  ran  into  me  on  the  street 
a  few  hours  after  I  arrived  from  Washington, 
recommended  me.  The  banker  explained  that 
there  was  to  be  an  important  local  election  in 
Salt  Lake  City  within  a  month  and  the  Mor- 
mons were  anticipating  a  bitter  fight  with 
their  implacable  enemy,  the  Gentiles.  He 
offered  a  thousand  dollars  and  liberal  expenses 
if  I  would  go  to  the  Mormon  capital  and 
secretly  direct  the  campaign. 

The  proposition  appealed  to  me,  for  I  had 
never  been  in  Salt  Lake  and  this  would  afford 
me  the  best  opportunity  I  might  ever  have  to 
get  a  close-up  view  of  Mormonism.  Besides, 
I  needed  the  money.  An  hour  after  I  promised 
to  go,  Horatio  Seymour,  editor  of  the  Chicago 
Herald,  offered  me  the  city  editorship  of  his 
paper,  which  I  promptly  accepted  with  the 
understanding  that  I  was  not  to  begin  until 
my  return  from  Utah. 

I  had  an  interesting  time  during  the  month 
I  spent  with  the  Mormons.  We  tore  up  the 
streets  and  brought  colonies  of  voters  from  all 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    147 

over  the  territory  to  do  the  work  of  repaying. 
Fortunately  I  was  able  to  get  away  before  the 
finish,  for  one  less  experienced  in  politics  than 
I  could  have  seen  at  a  glance  that  the  stupid 
Mormons  hadn't  a  ghost  of  a  chance  of  win- 
ning. The  night  before  I  left  for  Chicago  they 
gave  me  a  banquet  at  the  famous  Amelia 
Palace,  where  old  Brigham  Young  once  lived 
with  his  favorite  wife.  President  Woodruff 
presided  at  the  feast  and  George  Q.  Cannon 
made  an  impressive  speech,  after  which  all  of 
the  dignitaries  congratulated  me  on  having 
won  the  election  for  them.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
sold  a  gold  brick  when  they  handed  me  a 
thousand  dollars  and  a  return  ticket  to  Chicago 
They  were  overwhelmingly  defeated. 

In  many  respects  the  Herald,  where  I  was 
soon  installed  as  city  editor,  was  the  pleasant- 
est  office  I  ever  worked  in.  The  paper  was 
alive  with  enterprise,  brightly  written  and 
ably  edited.  The  staff  was  like  a  happy  family. 
I  never  knew  such  teamwork,  every  man  pull- 
ing harmoniously  with  his  mates  and  giving 
the  best  that  was  in  him  for  the  glory  of  his 
paper.     The   only  newspaper  staff   at  that 


148    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

period  that  equaled  it  in  alertness,  brilliancy 
of  intellect,  and  ability  to  write,  was  the  splen- 
did organization  with  which  Mr.  Dana  and 
Chester  Lord  were  surrounded  on  the  New 
York  Sun.  The  stafiF  of  the  Sun  was  larger 
and  better  paid  than  ours  but  in  no  other 
respect  did  it  surpass  us. 

The  editor  of  the  Herald  was  Horatio  Sey- 
mour, one  of  the  ablest  of  American  journalists, 
keen,  calm,  logical,  a  close  student  of  public 
affairs.  His  brain  was  ever  alert  with  ideas 
and  with  power  to  express  himself  such  as 
possessed  by  few  editors  I  ever  came  in  con- 
tact with.  He  is  now  and  has  been  for  many 
years,  an  editorial  writer  on  the  New  York 
World.  He  was  managing  editor  of  the  Times 
when  Storey  was  in  full  vigor  of  greatness. 

It  was  Seymour  who  put  "Jerked  to  Jesus'* 
over  the  account  of  a  hanging.  He  afterward 
told  me  that  he  was  more  ashamed  of  it  than 
anything  he  had  ever  done.  Anyone  who 
knows  him  would  never  suspect  him  to  be 
capable  of  so  much  as  a  blasphemous  thought. 
He  was  one  of  the  gentlest  gentlemen  I  ever 
knew.    The  harshest  word  of  reproof  I  ever  had 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    149 

from  him  was  when  a  story  in  which  he  was 
specially  interested  and  which  he  had  sug- 
gested did  not  appear  in  the  paper.  He  sum- 
moned me  to  his  office  and  asked  why  it  had 
not  been  written.  I  mumbled  some  excuse, 
the  real  reason  for  my  neglect  being  that  I 
had  been  pressed  with  other  matters  and  had 
forgotten  his  instructions. 

"Please  take  it  up  to-day  and  pursue  it 
until  completed,"  he  mildly  directed,  without 
raising  his  voice  or  betraying  the  irritation  I 
know  he  must  have  felt.  The  reproof  as  he 
administered  it  was  far  more  effective  than  if 
he  had  blustered  with  rage  and  cursed  until  he 
was  black  in  the  face,  as  I  have  seen  some 
editors  do  with  much  less  provocation.  It  is 
more  than  thirty  years  since  that  "scolding" 
and  I  have  never  forgotten  it. 

John  R.  Walsh,  a  banker,  owned  the  Herald, 
but  beyond  his  first  investment,  he  wasn't 
drawn  upon  for  financial  backing.  Editor  Sey- 
mour's brains  having  put  the  paper  on  a  solid 
foundation  almost  from  the  time  he  assumed 
control.  It  had  been  started  a  few  years  before 
by  some  bright  young  men  who  quickly  made 


150   City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

it  popular  but  who  had  the  property  taken 
from  them  when  they  lost  a  libel  suit  for  half 
a  million  dollars  that  was  won  by  a  depart- 
ment store  proprietor.  As  soon  as  I  became 
city  editor  I  began  employing  from  other  news- 
papers the  ablest  young  men  I  knew.  Mr. 
Seymour  gave  me  free  rein  and  never  found 
fault  with  my  bidding  for  brains. 

Philip  D.  Armour,  one  of  the  greatest  of 
American  business  men,  once  told  me  that  the 
secret  of  his  success  was  in  selecting  the  best 
men  he  could  find  for  his  organization.  I  never 
forgot  it  and  in  my  small  way  I  put  into  prac- 
tice that  principle.  Whatever  success  I  at- 
tained was  almost  entirely  due  to  the  fact  that 
I  first  bargained  with  my  employer  that  1  was 
never  to  be  interfered  with  in  selecting  a  staff, 
and  always  reaching  out  for  men  of  ability 
and  energy  with  which  to  recruit  it.  I  lured 
them  away  from  other  jobs  and  rewarded  their 
coming  by  paying  higher  salaries  than  some 
of  them  had  ever  dreamed  of  earning,  in 
return  for  which  I  always  exacted  from  them 
the  best  they  had  to  give.  If  they  "made 
good,"  they  were  rewarded  still  further.    If 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    151 

they  shirked,  it  was  but  a  short  walk  to  the 
elevator. 

There  were  no  shirkers  among  the  young 
men  of  the  Herald  staff.  They  were  always 
greedy  for  work  and  I  gave  them  every  oppor- 
tunity to  gratify  their  desire.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  line  of  reporting  they  couldn't 
cover  and  write  better  than  the  best  reporters 
of  rival  papers.  In  the  vocabulary  of  the  pro- 
fession, they  were  all  "  stars.  '*  There  was  Pete 
Dunne,  the  "Mr.  Dooley"  humorist,  who  had 
been  with  me  on  the  Times;  Brand  Whitlock, 
until  recently  Ambassador  to  Belgium;  Charlie 
Dillingham,  now  proprietor  of  the  Hippodrome 
and  the  Globe  Theater  in  New  York;  John 
Eastman,  proprietor  of  the  Chicago  Journal; 
Charlie  Seymour,  brother  of  the  editor  and 
almost  as  brilliant  a  writer;  Ben  (I  forget  his 
last  name)  the  chap  who  wrote  "nothing  to 
eat  but  food;  nothing  to  wear  but  clothes"; 
and  many  others,  some  of  whom  are  dead. 
Most  of  those  who  survive  are  in  the  front 
ranks  of  journalism  or  in  positions  high  up  in 
the  business  world. 

They  were  sometimes  a  difficult  bunch  to 


152    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

handle,  for  most  of  them  were  spirited  young 
geniuses  and  not  always  amenable  to  disci- 
pline. They  had  a  Bohemian  sort  of  club  close 
by  which  they  called  the  Whitechapel  and 
where  they  could  always  be  found  when  not 
on  duty.  Stories  came  to  my  ears  that  made 
me  apprehensive  that  some  of  my  youngsters 
were  in  danger  of  becoming  demoralized.  I 
posted  a  notice  that  no  member  of  the  club 
would  be  employed  on  the  Herald  and  all  of 
my  stars  quit  in  a  bunch,  leaving  only  the 
cubs  to  report  a  disastrous  railroad  wreck. 
Their  pride  was  stung  to  the  quick  when  they 
read  the  Herald's  poor  account  of  the  wreck 
and  they  came  back  to  their  desks  in  a  hurry 
the  next  day  and  asked  to  be  forgiven,  and  of 
course  they  were. 

The  crowning  folly  of  the  Whitechapel 
bunch  was  to  take  the  body  of  a  member  who 
died  to  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  put  it  on  a 
blazing  pyre,  join  hands  and  circle  about  it, 
chanting  weird  songs  until  the  body  was  re- 
duced to  ashes. 

Late  one  Saturday  night  a  reporter  brought 
in  a  story  of  a  mother  and  her  daughter  having 


City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five    153 

been  found  frozen  to  death  in  their  fireless 
home.  It  was  bitter  cold  weather  and  there 
was  much  poverty  and  suffering,  for  many 
were  out  of  employment.  A  man  read  the 
story  and  came  to  the  office  the  following  day 
with  a  thousand  dollars,  which  he  asked  me  to 
distribute  among  the  needy.  A  blizzard  was 
raging  all  of  that  Sunday.  I  gave  ten  reporters 
a  hundred  dollars  each  and  directed  them  to  go 
to  different  police  stations,  obtain  from  the 
police  names  of  suffering  families  and  relieve 
distress  as  far  as  the  money  would  go.  What 
the  reporters  found  and  did  among  the  poor 
filled  a  page  of  the  paper  and  the  man  came 
back  before  noon  with  another  thousand 
dollars.  He  wouldn't  tell  his  name.  I  called 
him  "the  man  with  a  heart." 

Many  others  sent  money,  for  the  story 
startled  Chicago  as  nothing  had  done  for  years. 
Thus  began  one  of  the  biggest  and  most 
successful  campaigns  for  helping  poor  folk 
that  I  ever  participated  in.  Within  two  days 
we  had  a  building  full  of  willing  workers  for  a 
headquarters  and  the  merchants  sorted  out 
their  stocks  and  sent  around  dray  loads  of 


154    City  Editor  at  Twenty-Five 

goods  of  every  description,  while  the  well-to- 
do  reduced  their  wardrobes  to  contribute  to 
the  poor.  Illinois  mine  owners  sent  an  entire 
train  of  coal.  Wholesale  houses  and  depart- 
ment stores  sent  horses  and  trucks  and  men 
to  aid  in  the  distribution.  Hundreds  of  tons 
of  clothing  and  provisions  were  received  at 
headquarters  and  promptly  sent  to  different 
parts  of  the  city,  society  women  volunteering 
their  services  to  act  as  investigators,  for  we 
were  careful  to  guard  against  impostors.  I 
doubt  if  any  great  public  charity  was  ever  more 
prudently  or  systematically  distributed.  It 
was  several  weeks  before  the  money  and 
supplies  were  exhausted,  and  by  that  time  fine 
weather  had  set  in  and  there  was  employment 
for  all  that  wanted  it. 

I  don't  know  why  this  incident  comes  back 
to  me  so  vividly  now  unless  it  is  because  I 
broke  down  my  health  under  the  strain  of  it 
and  was  sent  away  unconscious  to  rest  until 
I  had  recovered. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BREAKING  INTO  PARK  ROW 

I  NEVER  went  back  to  the  Herald.  After 
my  health  was  restored,  or  partly  so,  I  went 
to  New  York  from  the  seashore,  drifted  down 
to  Park  "Row  and  was  attracted  by  the  gilded 
dome  of  the  World  building.  The  date  was 
July  i8,  1891. 

I  was  familar  with  the  wonderful  success  of 
Joseph  Pulitzer  in  New  York  and  I  was 
fascinated  with  this  stupendous  monument 
to  his  brains  and  energy.  Acting  entirely  on 
impulse  I  went  in,  ascended  to  the  dome  and 
found  my  way  to  the  office  of  Ballard  Smith, 
at  that  time  editor-in-chief.  He  was  easily 
accessible.  I  started  to  introduce  myself  and 
relate  to  him  my  newspaper  experience,  but  he 
cut  me  short  by  saying  he  knew  of  me  and  he 
almost  took  my  breath  away  when  he  asked 
if  I  would  accept  a  place  on  the  staff.     Would 

155 


156       Breaking  into  Park  Row 

I  join  the  staff  of  the  New  York  World?  I 
would  have  bartered  ten  years  of  my  life  for 
the  chance.  It  was  a  realization  of  my  fondest 
dream. 

I  had  been  told  that  one  needed  a  jimmy  to 
break  into  the  organization  of  a  New  York 
newspaper,  but  here  was  an  editor  offering 
me  a  job  before  I  even  had  time  to  apply. 

I  began  work  the  following  day.  I  hadn't 
been  there  two  weeks  when  Ballard  Smith 
summoned  me  to  his  office  to  read  a  cable  dis- 
patch that  had  come  from  Paris.  It  was  from 
Mr.  Pulitzer,  inquiring  who  it  was  that  had 
written  an  account  of  a  railroad  wreck  that 
appeared  on  the  first  page  a  few  days  after  I 
came  to  the  paper.  Mr.  Smith  had  replied, 
giving  my  name  and  the  additional  informa- 
ation  that  I  was  a  new  man,  and  the  proprietor 
had  directed  him  to  convey  his  personal 
compliments  to  me  and  to  present  in  his  name 
a  substantial  cash  reward.  Before  completing 
my  first  month  I  was  made  assistant  city 
editor. 

I  had  been  there  a  little  more  than  a  year 
when  poor  health  prompted  me  to  take  a  trip 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       i57 

to  Colorado.  Returning  eastward,  some 
months  afterward,  I  stopped  in  St.  Louis  and 
met  Florence  White,  now  general  manager  of 
the  New  York  World,  at  that  time  manager  of 
the  Post-Dispatch,  the  paper  that  was  the 
foundation  of  the  enormous  fortune  that  Mr 
Pulitzer  afterward  accumulated.  Mr.  Pulitzer 
left  it  in  charge  of  subordinates  when  he  went 
to  New  York  and  bought  the  bankrupt  World, 
with  the  smallest  circulation  of  any  newspaper 
in  the  metropolis,  and  almost  overnight  trans- 
formed it  into  one  of  the  most  widely  read  and 
influential  newspapers  in  America. 

Mr.  White  offered  me  a  job.  I  had  always 
worked  on  a  morning  paper,  with  the  attending 
long  hours  and  little  chance  for  home  life  and 
almost  no  recreation.  The  Post-Dispatch  was 
an  afternoon  paper  and  I  realized  that  I  would 
have  all  of  my  evenings  to  myself.  To  one 
recovering  from  a  long  spell  of  sickness  it 
looked  attractive,  so  I  hung  my  coat  on  a  peg 
and  went  to  work.  It  wasn't  long  before  I  was 
made  city  editor  and  I  held  the  job  until  Mr. 
Pulitzer  called  me  back  to  New  York,  four 
years  later. 


158       Breaking  into  Park  Row 

I  was  in  St.  Louis  when  a  terrific  tornado 
cut  a  great  gash  through  the  most  thickly 
populated  section  of  the  city,  destroying 
hundreds  of  lives  and  millions  of  dollars' worth 
of  property.  And  of  the  newspaper  men  there 
when  the  storm  came  tearing  out  of  the  west  I 
was  the  most  inactive.  That  afternoon,  when 
my  work  for  the  day  was  about  completed? 
Frankenfeld  of  the  local  weather  bureau, 
dropped  into  the  office  and  suggested  the 
advisability  of  my  starting  for  home,  if  I 
wanted  to  reach  there  ahead  of  a  storm  that 
was  portended  by  falling  barometer  and 
darkening  skies. 

"Cyclone.?"  I  asked. 

"No,  not  so  bad  as  that.  We  never  have 
cyclones  in  cities,  but  I  think  it  will  be  a  nasty 
storm  and  I  would  advise  you  to  hit  the 
trail." 

I  went  to  my  home  in  the  western  suburbs 
and  the  storm  burst  with  wicked  fury  as  I 
entered  the  house.  Old  Moses,  my  black 
house  servant,  and  I  had  a  lively  time  closing 
the  windows  and  when  this  was  done  I 
watched   the   storm   wrench   branches  from 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       159 

trees  and  carry  them  over  the  tops  of  houses. 
I  saw  my  chicken  house  topple  over  and  the 
prize  rosebushes  I  had  nursed  so  tenderly  torn 
up  by  the  roots.  Almost  every  growing  thing 
in  the  garden  was  blown  away.  That  was  the 
penalty  of  living  in  the  suburbs,  I  thought,  as 
I  viewed  the  damage,  for  the  storm  would  pass 
over  the  built-up  city  and  do  no  harm.  I  ate 
dinner  and  went  to  bed  with  a  grouch. 

I  was  always  up  at  five  in  the  morning  and 
at  my  desk  before  seven,  but  the  morning  after 
the  storm  the  street-car  line  I  was  accustomed 
to  take  wasn't  running.  Nor  had  any  morn- 
ing papers  been  delivered.  More  penalty  for 
living  in  the  suburbs,  more  annoyances  to  start 
one  off  to  business  in  bad  humor.  I  found 
cars  moving  on  another  line  four  blocks  away 
but  I  was  half-way  to  my  office  before  a  man 
got  on  with  a  newspaper.  When  he  opened  it 
the  headlines  that  caught  my  eyes  gave  me 
the  greatest  surprise  I  had  ever  known.  Hun- 
dreds killed ;  thousands  of  homes  in  ruins !  And 
I  was  grieving  over  uprooted  rosebushes  and  a 
wrecked  chicken  house. 

When  I  got  to  the  office  I  saw  a  fine  demon- 


i6o       Breaking  into  Park  Row 

stration  of  the  efficiency  of  our  organization. 
Not  a  man  was  missing  and  all  were  as  busy 
as  hornets.  Not  one  had  slept  a  wink  all 
night.  My  assistant,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
stand  watch  for  an  emergency  after  the  last 
edition  had  gone  to  press  and  I  had  left  for  the 
day,  was  at  his  desk  with  a  few  belated  workers 
when  the  storm  hit  the  city.  Darkness  came 
and  then  a  screeching,  roaring  pandemonium. 
The  tornado  raged  with  unabated  fury  for 
nearly  an  hour.  All  through  it  telephones 
rang  and  reporters  in  various  sections  of  the 
city  described  what  they  saw.  Dead  lying 
in  the  streets,  homes  demolished,  havoc,  ruin 
and  desolation  for  miles. 

An  extra  was  rushed  to  press  and  the  news- 
boys were  crying  it  in  the  streets  before  the 
storm  subsided.  Additional  details  came  over 
the  telephones  and  a  second  extra  was  sent  out, 
followed  by  another  shortly  before  midnight. 
Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  night  the 
reporters  groped  about  in  the  blackness,  for 
almost  the  entire  lighting  system  where  the 
greatest  damage  was  done  had  been  put  out  of 
business,  and  they  bravely  helped  the  firemen 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       i6i 

and  police  drag  out  the  maimed  and  dying 
from  the  heaps  of  ruined  homes.  With  the 
beginning  of  dawn  they  were  in  the  office, 
writing  like  mad  of  the  dreadful  scenes  they 
had  witnessed.  I  shall  always  be  proud  of 
those  boys  and  of  what  they  did  while  their 
boss  was  fuming  over  his  uprooted  rosebushes. 

It  was  the  first  big  story  v/ithin  my  reach 
that  I  hadn't  mixed  up  with  since  I  became  a 
newspaper  man,  though  I  had  another  similar 
experience  some  years  later  when  President 
McKinley  was  assassinated. 

At  the  time  of  that  tragic  occurrence  I  was 
city  editor  of  the  Evening  World  in  New  York. 
One  afternoon  I  started  for  a  ball  game  at  the 
Polo  Grounds,  but  the  weather  was  so  hot  I 
gave  up  going  to  the  game  on  the  way  uptown 
and  went  to  my  hotel  at  the  entrance  to  Cen- 
tral Park  and  was  soon  fast  asleep.  When  I 
awoke  there  were  several  notes  that  had  been 
slipped  under  the  door.  I  was  wanted  at  the 
telephone  booth  in  the  hotel.  In  those  days 
rooms  were  not  supplied  with  individual  tele- 
phones. I  went  to  the  office  and  learned  that 
the   World  had   been   calling   for   me.     The 


1 62       Breaking  into  Park  Row 

operator  rang  for  twenty  minutes  without 
getting  a  connection.  "Busy,"  "busy," 
reported  the  exchange. 

"Anything  happened.'*"  I  asked  the  oper- 
ator. 

She  shifted  her  gum  and  languidly  drawled : 
"McKinley'sshot!" 

Good  lord,  the  President  assassinated  and  I 
fast  asleep!  The  Nation  pulsating  with  hor- 
ror and  an  editor  sleeping  his  wits  away 
because  the  day  was  warm !  When  I  got  the 
connection  with  my  office  they  told  me  a  third 
extra  had  gone  to  press.  There  was  nothing 
left  for  me  to  do  but  eat  dinner,  smoke  a  cigar, 
read  the  papers  and  go  to  bed.  And  that  is 
what  1  did. 

While  I  was  city  editor  of  the  Post-Dispatch 
a  judge  of  the  criminal  court  challenged  me 
from  the  bench  to  fight  a  duel.  It  was  an 
amusing  episode  as  I  now  recall  it,  although  it 
might  have  terminated  in  a  tragedy. 

Colonel  Charles  H.  Jones,  a  pompous  little 
man  with  bristling  white  whiskers,  had  been 
sent  from  the  World  office  by  Mr.  Pulitzer  to 
take   editorial   charge   of  the   Post-Dispatch. 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       163 

He  was  an  aggressive  chap,  with  an  exalted 
opinion  of  his  importance,  and  he  kept  the 
paper  and  everyone  connected  with  it  in  hot 
water  almost  from  the  day  he  assumed  control. 
It  was  said  of  him  that  he  used  vitriol  when 
writing  editorials.  He  was  volcanic  and  tur- 
gescent.  One  day  he  caused  to  be  written  an 
article  attacking  the  integrity  of  the  President 
of  the  Board  of  Education,  which  he  person- 
ally passed  upon  and  ordered  to  be  printed  the 
following  day.  He  left  for  the  East  on  a 
night  train. 

In  his  absence  I  was  in  charge  of  the  paper 
and  that  is  how  I  came  to  be  arrested  for 
criminal  libel  when  the  angry  official  instituted 
legal  action  against  the  newspaper.  I  was 
arraigned  in  the  criminal  court  before  Judge 
Murphy,  who  was  smarting  over  an  article 
about  himself  that  had  appeared  in  the  Post- 
Dispatch  at  a  time  I  was  away  on  vacation. 
Because  the  Judge  was  known  to  be  hostile  to 
the  paper  and  everyone  connected  with  it,  the 
attorney  who  represented  me  asked  that  the 
libel  case  be  transferred  to  another  court. 

It  was  then  that  Judge  Murphy  turned 


164       Breaking  into  Park  Row 

loose  his  wrath.  Rising  from  the  bench  in  a 
towering  passion,  he  stalked  out  of  the  court- 
room and  disappeared  in  his  chambers.  The 
spectators  suspected  something  unusual  was 
about  to  happen  and  there  was  a  hum  of 
suppressed  conversation  while  awaiting  the 
Judge's  return.  Larry  Harrigan,  Chief  of 
Police,  moved  around  to  where  I  was  sitting 
and  whispered  a  warning  in  my  ear. 

"  Be  careful  what  you  say  and  do,"  he  said. 
"Judge  Murphy  is  crazy  drunk  and  ugly.  He 
will  kill  you  if  you  give  him  a  chance." 

My  vicarious  arrest  was  growing  exciting. 
Judge  Murphy  returned  from  his  chambers, 
flourishing  a  copy  of  the  Post-Dispatch.  It 
was  the  issue  that  had  contained  the  article 
attacking  him.  His  face  was  livid  and  there 
was  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  evidently  meant 
mischief.  He  ordered  me  to  the  witness  stand 
and  motioned  to  Chester  Crum,  a  prominent 
lawyer,  to  interrogate  me.  The  frame-up  was 
now  complete,  for  Crum  had  brought  his  ax 
to  the  grindstone  along  with  Murphy.  Crum's 
grievance  was  a  story  in  the  Post-Dispatch  that 
had  set  the  town  laughing  by  describing  how 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       165 

he  slid  down  a  fire  escape  when  a  gambling 
house  was  raided. 

Judge  Murphy  handed  the  newspaper  to 
Crum  and  leaned  far  over  his  bench  and  glared 
furiously  at  me.  His  right  hand  was  beneath 
the  bench  and  the  Chief  of  Police  afterward 
told  me  that  it  held  a  revolver.  The  court- 
room was  packed,  the  spectators  silent  and 
expectant. 

Crum  read  the  article  about  Murphy  in  a 
loud  voice  and  at  the  end  of  each  sentence  I 
was  asked  who  had  written  it.  I  declined  to 
answer.  When  Crum  had  finished  reading, 
Judge  Murphy  thunderously  ejected  a  stump 
speech  about  his  life  being  an  open  book, 
guiltless  of  what  the  paper  had  printed  about 
him.  He  wound  up  his  tirade  by  openly 
challenging  me  to  fight  him  a  duel.  Then  he 
went  back  to  his  chambers  for  another  drink. 

Chief  Harrigan  escorted  me  to  my  office. 
He  told  me  that  throughout  the  questioning 
by  Crum,  Judge  Murphy  was  gripping  a 
revolver,  evidently  intent  on  shooting  me  if 
he  could  find  provocation.  The  Chief  gave 
me  his  revolver  and  told  me  to  carry  it  and 


1 66      Breaking  into  Park  Row 

not  to  hesitate  to  use  it  if  Murphy  attacked 
me. 

The  next  edition  of  the  Post-Dispatch  con- 
tained a  stenographic  report  of  what  had 
taken  place  in  the  courtroom.  It  was  headed: 
"A  Blatherskite  on  the  Bench." 

An  hour  after  the  paper  came  out  Judge 
Murphy,  drunk  and  ugly,  appeared  in  the 
street  opposite.  A  crowd  gathered  in  antici- 
pation of  a  shooting,  but  the  judge  contented 
himself  with  shaking  his  clenched  fist  at  the 
editorial  windows  above  and  shouting  nasty 
names.  He  didn't  come  up  or  fire  a  shot.  The 
affair  had  a  bloodless  termination.  I  was  ex- 
onerated when  the  libel  case  was  given  a  hear- 
ing before  another  judge  and  the  case  itself 
was  thrown  out  of  court. 

A  week  later  I  was  walking  down  Olive 
Street  one  Sunday  morning  and  I  saw  Judge 
Murphy  approaching  from  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. There  was  no  one  else  in  sight.  I  would 
have  avoided  meeting  him  had  there  been  any 
other  way  than  to  turn  and  run.  I  thrust  my 
hand  into  the  pocket  of  my  overcoat  and 
gripped   Harrigan's   revolver.     At   the   same 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       167 

time  Judge  Murphy's  hand  shot  into  the 
breast  of  his  coat.  Neither  of  us  slackened 
pace  and  we  were  soon  so  close  that  we  could 
have  touched  each  other.  Judge  Murphy 
averted  his  eyes  from  me  and  I  was  just  as 
polite  to  him,  though  I  am  positive  that  both 
of  us  were  cautiously  squinting  out  of  the  cor- 
ner of  an  eye.  Nothing  happened.  He  sim- 
ply walked  on  as  if  I  wasn't  there.  I  don't 
think  he  so  much  as  looked  back  after  passing 
me.  I  did,  for  I  was  a  bit  apprehensive  of 
rear  attack,  but  both  of  us  walked  so  fast  we 
were  soon  out  of  range. 

I  recall  another  occasion  when  our  fiery 
little  editor,  Colonel  Jones,  came  very  near 
being  the  cause  of  a  tragedy.  Some  years 
before,  while  he  was  editing  the  St.  Louis 
Republic,  he  and  David  R.  Francis  had  been 
such  fast  friends  that  Jones  persuaded  Francis 
to  run  for  Governor,  supporting  his  candi- 
dacy with  his  newspaper  and  personally  work- 
ing for  his  election.  Francis  was  elected.  A 
quarrel  between  the  wives  of  the  two  men 
disrupted  their  friendship.  Mrs.  Jones  wasn't 
invited   to   the   inaugural   festivities   and   of 


i68       Breaking  into  Park  Row 

course  her  husband  wouldn't  go  without  her. 
There  followed  a  bitter  attack  on  Francis  in 
the  editorial  columns  of  the  Republic  and  it 
was  kept  up  until  Francis  put  an  end  to  the 
sting  of  his  tormentor  by  quietly  purchasing 
control  of  the  Republic  and  ousting  Colonel 
Jones  from  the  editorial  chair. 

Jones  went  to  the  World  in  New  York  for 
awhile  and  later  was  sent  back  to  St.  Louis  by 
Mr.  Pulitzer  to  take  editorial  charge  of  the 
Post-Dispatch.  He  arrived  soon  after  I  joined 
the  staff  of  the  Post-Dispatch  and  his  first 
official  act  was  to  appoint  me  city  editor  of 
the  paper.  The  enmity  between  Jones  and 
Francis  had  not  cooled  and  Jones  let  no 
opportunity  escape  to  give  Francis  a  stab 
with  his  caustic  pen.  One  day  there  was 
something  printed  in  the  paper  in  connection 
with  the  mysterious  drowning  of  Dennis  P. 
Slattery  that  so  aroused  the  anger  of  Francis, 
he  came  stalking  into  the  Post-Dispatch  office, 
accompanied  by  his  brother  Tom,  angrily 
demanding  to  know  where  the  editor  was. 
I  told  him  that  Colonel  Jones  was  in  his 
office  on  the  floor  above  and  he  and  Tom 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       169 

Francis  went  up  the  staircase  two  steps  at  a 
time. 

I  saw  my  assistant,  Kinney  Underwood, 
another  fiery  little  Southerner,  grab  a  revolver 
from  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  rush  up  the 
stairway  behind  them.  I  followed.  The  two 
Francis  brothers  were  in  the  editor's  sanctum, 
when  I  got  there,  demanding  an  immediate 
retraction. 

Colonel  Jones  was  at  his  desk,  white  of  face 
but  coldly  dignified.  I  found  Kinney  Under- 
wood in  an  adjoining  office,  that  was  divided 
from  the  editor's  sanctum  by  a  glass  partition 
through  which  every  action  of  the  men  inside 
could  be  watched.  Underwood  was  crouched 
behind  a  desk,  revolver  in  hand,  the  weapon 
leveled  at  David  R.  Francis.  The  latter  had 
his  back  turned  to  him.  Francis  never  knew 
how  close  to  death  he  was.  One  move  to  draw 
a  weapon  and  Underwood  would  surely  have 
killed  him. 

With  that  imperturbable  dignity  that  char- 
acterized our  spunky  little  editor,  I  heard  him 
tell  Francis  to  dictate  to  a  stenographer  what 
he  wished  to  have  printed  by  way  of  retraction 


170      Breaking  into  Park  Row 

and  I  saw  him  at  least  pretend  to  go  ahead 
with  his  work  while  this  was  being  done. 
When  the  stenographer  had  written  it  out 
Colonel  Jones  carefully  read  it  and  struck  out 
more  than  half  of  it  with  his  blue  pencil.  He 
handed  the  revised  item  back  to  Francis  to 
read. 

"Til  print  that  much  and  no  more,"  calmly 
remarked  the  editor. 

Francis  read  and  gave  a  nod  of  approval. 

Colonel  Jones  turned  to  Tom  Francis. 
"Take  your  brother  out  of  here,"  he  said, 
jerking  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  David  R. 
and  resuming  the  writing  from  which  he  had 
been  interrupted.     They  went  away. 

That  is  how  close  David  R.  Francis  came  to 
never  receiving  an  appointment  as  American 
ambassador  to  Russia. 

Colonel  Jones  continued  to  lambast  in  the 
editorial  columns  everyone  with  whom  he 
formed  an  enmity  and  drove  all  of  the  adver- 
tisers away  from  the  newspaper  by  his  vicious 
attacks.  The  property  was  in  imminent  peril 
of  being  wrecked  and  Mr.  Pulitzer  began 
proceedings  in  the  courts  to  oust  his  editor. 


Breaking  into  Park  Row       171 

who  tenaciously  hung  onto  his  job  by  virtue  of 
a  long-term  contract.  It  cost  Mr.  Pulitzer  a 
lot  of  money  to  get  rid  of  him,  but  it  was  cheap 
at  any  price.  A  stroke  of  apoplexy  termi- 
nated his  editorial  career  and  some  years  later 
he  died  in  a  sanatarium  in  Italy. 

Then  came  the  startling  news  that  the 
Spaniards  had  sunk  the  Maine  off  Havana. 
Alf.  Ringling,  the  circus  man,  and  I  were 
discussing  the  probability  of  an  early  declara- 
tion of  war  at  luncheon,  and  our  conversation 
was  interrupted  by  a  messenger  boy  from  my 
office.  He  brought  a  telegram  from  Mr. 
Pulitzer,  directing  me  to  leave  for  New  York 
that  night  if  possible  and  to  come  prepared 
to  remain.  A  few  hours  later  I  sat  in  the  end 
of  an  observation  car  and  watched  the  twink- 
ling lights  of  St.  Louis  fade  into  nothing. 
My  newspaper  career  in  that  city  was  at  an 
end  and  I  was  glad  of  it. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON   THE    WORLD'S   CITY   DESK 

On  arriving  in  New  York  and  reporting  at 
the  World  office,  I  was  told  why  I  had  been 
summoned  from  St.  Louis  on  such  short  notice. 
There  had  been  a  tragedy  in  the  editorial 
rooms  of  the  Evening  World.  Three  nights 
before  my  arrival  the  managing  editor  had 
collapsed  at  his  desk  and  had  been  carried  out 
with  his  mind  completely  shattered.  For 
weeks  he  had  worked  early  and  late,  almost 
without  sleep  or  rest.  Ever  since  the  Maine 
had  been  sunk  he  had  seldom  left  his  desk, 
lest  some  more  dreadful  happening  of  immi- 
nent war  find  his  newspaper  unprepared. 

The  Evening  Journal  had  recently  sprung 
into  existence  and  there  was  great  rivalry  be- 
tween the  two  papers,  for  Arthur  Brisbane, 
the  Journal  editor,   had  been  editor  of  the 

Evening  World  and  was  now  actively  engaged 

172 


On  the  fForld's  City  Desk     173 

in  trying  to  beat  the  paper  on  which  his  repu- 
tation had  been  made. 

Ernest  Chamberlain,  who  had  succeeded 
Brisbane  on  the  Evening  World,  was  equally 
alert  in  his  efforts  to  maintain  the  supremacy 
of  Mr.  Pulitzer's  wide-awake  afternoon  edi- 
tion. Chamberlain  expected  Congress  to 
declare  war  any  day  and  was  alive  to  the  im- 
portance of  every  scrap  of  news  that  might 
point  to  such  action.  He  wouldn't  trust  the 
judgment  of  subordinates,  but  sat  at  his  desk 
day  and  night,  eagerly  scanning  press  dis- 
patches and  directing  the  energies  of  special 
correspondents,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  rush  extras  to  press.  And  extras  came  from 
the  presses  like  hot  cakes  from  the  griddle  in 
Childs's  window. 

One  night,  when  most  of  the  staff  had  gone 
for  the  day,  an  extra  went  out  from  the  Eve- 
ning World  o^ct  announcing  that  war  had  been 
declared.  Someone  went  up  to  the  editorial 
room  to  inquire  about  it  and  found  a  lunatic 
at  the  managing  editor's  desk.  Poor  Cham- 
berlain had  gone  stark  mad  from  overwork 
and  worry  and  had  manufactured  the  war 


174     On  the  lForld*s  City  Desk 

declaration  from  the  raving  of  his  crazed  brain. 
Messengers  were  rushed  in  every  direction  to 
recall  the  extras  from  the  newsboys.  Fortu- 
nately but  few  of  the  papers  got  into  the  hands 
of  readers  or  the  reputation  of  the  Evening 
World  for  accuracy  and  reliability  might  have 
been  seriously  impaired  by  so  palpable  a  fake. 
They  dragged  Chamberlain  from  his  desk  and 
took  him  home.  In  a  few  days  he  was  dead. 
He  had  sacrificed  his  life  to  his  calling. 

The  paper  came  out  at  the  usual  time  the 
next  morning,  as  bright  and  enterprising  as 
ever.  None  of  its  readers  could  suspect  what 
had  occurred  in  the  office  the  night  before.  Its 
brilliant  young  editor  was  gone,  but  another 
editor  of  greater  ability  was  at  his  desk.  He 
was  Foster  Coates.  He  had  a  fine  perception 
of  news  values.  He  was  dynamic  in  the  quick 
handling  of  big  news,  a  genius  for  getting  an 
extra  on  the  streets  ahead  of  his  rivals.  I  never 
knew  an  editor  who  was  more  loyal  to  his  job. 

And  I  recall  that  day  in  after  years  when  I 
stood  with  bared  head  and  looked  with  misty 
eyes  upon  his  dead  face  in  a  casket ;  the  eyelids 
forever  closed;  all  animation  gone  from  his 


On  the  World's  City  Desk      175 

now  placid  features;  that  tremendous  energy 
of  mind  and  body  stilled  like  chiseled  stone, 
and  there  came  to  my  mind  the  couplet  he  so 
often  repeated  when  he  and  I,  all  but  ex- 
hausted by  the  nerve-straining  toil  of  turning 
out  war  extras  in  midsummer,  would  drop  into 
our  chairs  after  the  final  edition  had  gone  to 
press : 

"Oh  hell!  What's  the  use,  what's  the  use; 
what's  the  use  of  chewing  tobacco  just  to  spit 
out  the  juice.    What's  the  use,  what's  the  use ! " 

Like  Chamberlain,  Coates  worked  himself 
to  death.  He  went  from  his  office  after  a  day 
of  hard  work  and  dropped  dead  as  he  entered 
his  home.  And  he  was  a  young  man;  Cham- 
berlain was  even  younger.  They  die  young  in 
journalism.  During  the  twenty  years  that  I 
was  city  editor  of  the  Evening  World  more 
than  fifty  of  our  staff  went  to  their  graves  and 
nearly  all  of  them  were  under  forty. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  came  home  from  Europe  when 
the  war  clouds  gathered,  and  was  in  New  York 
when  his  promising  young  editor  went  to 
pieces.  He  had  always  been  fond  of  Chamber- 
lain and  was  much  distressed  by  what  hap- 


176     On  the  World's  City  Desk 

pened,  but  in  a  great  newspaper  office  there 
isn't  much  time  for  lamentation,  for  the  edi- 
tions must  go  to  press  according  to  schedule, 
no  matter  how  many  worn-out  editors  drop 
by  the  wayside.    It*s  all  in  the  game. 

The  messenger  who  carried  the  news  of 
Chamberlain's  collapse  to  the  home  of  the 
proprietor,  brought  back  an  order  for  Coates 
to  assume  editorial  charge  and  the  new  editor 
was  at  Chamberlain's  old  desk,  planning  the 
next  edition,  when  most  of  the  members  of  the 
staff  reported  for  duty.  Few  of  them  had 
heard  of  the  tragedy  of  the  night  before.  They 
saw  a  new  editor  in  charge,  but  newspaper 
workers  are  accustomed  to  sudden  editorial 
shifts  and  they  went  about  their  duties  as  if 
he  had  always  been  there. 

I  arrived  the  following  day  and  was  installed 
as  city  editor,  Fred  Duneka  yielding  his  desk 
to  me,  in  obedience  to  instructions  from  Mr. 
Pulitzer,  he  in  turn  becoming  assistant  to 
Coates.  The  machine  was  now  in  perfect 
running  order,  and  it  is  the  machine  that 
counts.  An  individual  is  but  a  small  cog.  He 
may  think  himself  important  and  indispensa- 


On  the  fForld's  City  Desk      i77 

ble  but  when  he  drops  out  the  machine  grinds 
on  with  uninterrupted  energy.  The  cashier 
simply  balances  his  account  and  enters  a  differ- 
ent name  in  the  ledger. 

Coates  and  Duneka,  my  two  new  associates, 
were  both  companionable  and  capable.  In 
all  my  newspaper  experience  I  do  not  recall 
two  more  delightful  men.  Coates  was  the 
perfection  of  affable  gentleness  though  super- 
latively profane.  There  is  no  word  in  blas- 
phemous vocabulary  that  wasn't  on  the  tip 
of  his  tongue.  He  ripped  out  oaths  that  fairly 
made  the  windows  rattle,  but  it  was  habit 
more  than  temper,  for  otherwise  he  was  almost 
without  faults  and  to  me  was  ever  generous, 
warm-hearted,  and  kindly.  We  were  friends 
from  the  day  we  met. 

I  was  equally  fond  of  Fred  Duneka,  an  en- 
tirely different  type;  less  explosive,  not  so 
energetic,  but  capable  and  effective.  He  had 
traveled  pretty  much  over  the  world  as  literary 
secretary  to  our  blind  employer,  had  been  Lon- 
don correspondent  of  the  World  and  had  filled 
other  positions  of  responsibility  before  assum- 
ing the  city  editorship  of  the  evening  edition. 


178     On  the  fForld's  City  Desk 

I  shall  always  remember  his  devotion 
through  a  long  spell  of  sickness  I  had  that  first 
year  we  were  together.  Worn  out  by  the  long 
hours  of  hard  work  all  of  us  had  through  the 
Cuban  War,  I  fell  an  easy  victim  to  pneu- 
monia. Throughout  my  illness  and  convales- 
cence a  messenger  boy  was  at  my  home  at 
nine  every  morning  to  take  to  Duneka  a  bulle- 
tin of  my  condition.  This  he  posted  on  the 
office  bulletin  board  and  in  the  evening,  after 
the  last  edition  had  gone  to  press,  he  would  sit 
at  my  bedside  and  read  to  me  and  tell  me  what 
was  going  on  at  the  office  and  how  much  they 
all  missed  me.  He  left  us  to  become  general 
manager  of  the  publishing  house  of  Harper 
Brothers.  Within  a  year  news  has  come  to 
me  of  the  death  of  this  dear  friend  and  at  a 
time  when  I  couldn't  look  for  a  last  time  on 
the  features  I  loved  so  well  or  send  a  message 
of  condolence  to  his  affiicted  family.  A  news- 
paper friend  who  attended  the  funeral  wrote 
me  that  the  corpse  was  dressed  in  white  broad- 
cloth and  a  conspicuous  red  four-in-hand  tie. 

War  with  Spain  was  declared  a  month  after 
I  was  called  to  the  Evening  World  and  it  set 


On  the  World's  City  Desk     179 

all  of  us  hopping  with  activity,  eager  to  be  the 
first  on  the  street  with  news  that  everyone  was 
impatient  to  read.  An  epoch  of  delirious 
journalism  began,  the  like  of  which  newspaper 
readers  had  never  known.  Editions  of  evening 
newspapers  made  their  appearance  before  six 
in  the  morning  and  almost  every  hour  after- 
ward until  nearly  midnight. 

Coates  on  our  paper  and  Brisbane  in  the 
Journal  office  developed  a  craze  for  big  type 
and  tried  to  outdo  each  other  in  creating  start- 
ling headlines,  the  type  of  which  was  some- 
times almost  as  deep  as  the  front  page.  Coates 
defended  his  poster  type  headlines  by  likening 
the  front  page  of  a  newspaper  to  the  show 
window  of  a  department  store.  One  must 
display  his  wares  attractively,  he  argued,  or 
the  other  fellow  would  reap  the  largest  sales. 
I  can't  say  that  I  was  ever  fully  converted  to 
such  extreme  sensationalism,  though  I  don't 
think  my  worst  enemy  would  accuse  me  of 
being  an  old  fogy  in  presenting  news  to  the 
public. 

Flashy  headlines  were  not  the  only  innova- 
tion at  that  period.    The  editors  used  poster 


1 80     On  the  fF or  Id's  City  Desk 

type  in  every  edition,  sometimes  when  the 
news  wasn't  important  enough  to  justify  ex- 
travagant display,  so  when  a  really  big  piece 
of  news  came  along  there  was  no  way  of  at- 
tracting attention  to  it  except  by  printing  the 
headline  in  red  ink.  Then  followed  a  riot  of 
red  ink,  until  women  readers  began  protesting 
against  having  their  white  gloves  ruined.  This 
put  a  crimp  in  the  red  ink  folly,  for  publishers 
are  ever  mindful  of  women  readers. 

Women  can  make  or  break  a  newspaper. 
Big  advertisers  are  quick  to  learn  which  news- 
papers are  popular  with  women  and  the  papers 
they  read  on  street  cars  and  take  to  their 
homes  are  the  ones  that  carry  the  greatest 
amount  of  advertising,  from  which  the  profits 
of  newspaper  making  are  chiefly  derived.  It 
is  a  mistaken  notion  that  newspaper  sales 
make  publishers  rich.  There  isn't  a  newspaper 
published  that  wouldn't  be  forced  into  bank- 
ruptcy if  it  depended  on  sales  for  revenue,  for 
the  price  of  a  newspaper,  after  deducting  what 
the  news  dealers  get  out  of  it,  barely  pays 
for  the  raw  paper  and  ink. 

I  have  often  heard  it  said  that  the  European 


On  the  fForld's  City  Desk     i8i 

War  must  have  been  a  bonanza  to  the  news- 
papers because  of  the  great  demand  for  news, 
but  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  newspaper  in  New 
York  that  didn't  lose  money  from  the  time  the 
war  began,  notwithstanding  that  the  price 
was  doubled.  The  cost  of  everything,  the 
gathering  of  news,  cable  and  telegraph  tolls, 
mechanical  labor,  and  raw  materials,  was 
doubled  and  trebled.  And  there  were  times 
when  there  was  such  a  shortage  of  print  paper 
that  publishers  were  at  their  wits'  end  to  get 
sufficient  paper  to  run  through  the  next 
edition. 

The  World,  with  a  circulation  of  almost  a 
million  a  day,  was  in  such  straits  that  it  was 
obliged  to  buy  two  big  paper  mills  outright 
and  it  had  to  buy  a  coal  mine  to  get  enough 
fuel  to  keep  the  mills  running.  It  wasn't  in 
times  of  great  news  activities  that  Mr.  Pulitzer 
accumulated  the  vast  fortune  that  enabled 
him  to  give  two  millions  of  dollars  to  found  a 
college  of  journalism  and  more  millions  for  the 
development  of  music  and  art  and  kindred 
beneficiaries  of  his  munificence. 

All  of  us  toiled  early  and  late  through  the 


182     On  the  fForWs  City  Desk 

Spanish- American  War,  for  our  staff  was 
seriously  crippled  by  the  brave  fellows  who 
responded  to  the  call  for  soldiers.  Those  of  us 
who  didn't  enlist  did  the  work  on  the  paper  of 
those  who  did,  that  their  salaries  might  go  to 
support  their  families  while  they  were  away. 
Every  morning  while  the  war  lasted  I  was  out 
of  bed  at  two  and  at  my  desk  before  four,  to 
lay  out  the  work  of  preparing  an  edition  that 
was  sent  to  press  at  six.  Most  of  the  time  it 
was  night  before  I  could  leave.  The  managing 
editor  came  at  seven  and  often  remained  until 
midnight.  Both  of  us  ate  our  meals  at  our 
desks,  sometimes  from  our  hands,  while  super- 
intending the  making  up  of  an  edition  in  the 
composing  room. 

I  particularly  recall  that  morning  when  the 
World  got  the  greatest  news  beat  in  all  jour- 
nalistic history.  It  was  news  of  Dewey's  great 
victory  at  Manila,  news  that  set  all  the  world 
aflame,  coming  so  unexpectedly  and  so  splen- 
didly glorifying  the  American  navy  in  the  first 
crushing  defeat  to  Spain. 

Edward  Harden,  then  a  newspaper  man  and 
now  a  broker  in  Wall  Street,  was  a  guest  on 


On  the  World's  City  Desk      183 

one  of  Dewey's  battleships  when  the  entire 
Spanish  fleet  in  Manila  Bay  was  sunk.  He 
witnessed  all  of  it  and  the  smoke  of  battle  was 
barely  cleared  away  before  he  set  out  for  Hong- 
kong to  cable  to  the  New  York  World  news  of 
what  had  happened.  His  dispatch  was  paid 
for  in  advance  at  the  highest  cable  rate  and 
went  ahead  of  the  official  report.  It  reached 
the  World  office  after  the  last  morning  edition 
had  gone  to  press.  Van  Benthuysen,  managing 
editor  of  the  morning  edition,  was  starting  for 
home  when  it  came.  Almost  the  entire  work- 
ing force  had  already  gone,  but  enough  men 
were  rallied  to  put  the  news  in  type  and  rush 
it  to  the  presses  for  a  late  extra.  Unfortu- 
nately there  were  few  newsboys  at  hand  and 
neither  men  nor  wagons  to  give  the  paper  with 
its  tremendous  news  sensation  much  distribu- 
tion. My  recollection  is  that  not  more  than 
twenty  thousand  of  the  World's  half-million 
circulation  that  morning  contained  the  news 
of  Dewey's  victory  and  most  of  the  twenty 
thousand  papers  that  had  it  were  sold  at  the 
entrance  to  Brooklyn  Bridge.  The  sale  of 
twenty  thousand  papers  brought  to  the  office 


i84     On  the  World's  City  Desk 

about  a  hundred  and  twenty  dollars.  The 
news  beat  cost  the  World  five  thousand  dollars. 
When  I  got  to  the  office  that  morning  Har- 
den's  dispatch  had  just  been  received.  I  got 
a  copy  of  it  and  set  all  hands  at  work  to  pre- 
pare a  quick  extra  of  our  evening  edition.  The 
dispatch  was  set  in  big  type  the  full  width  of 
the  front  page  and  the  headline  over  it  was  the 
largest  type  in  the  composing  room.  Several 
inside  pages  were  filled  with  articles  describing 
Manila  Bay  and  the  Philippine  Islands;  why 
the  Spanish  fleet  was  there  and  how  Dewey 
caught  the  enemy  unprepared;  a  contrast  of 
the  battleships  of  both  fleets,  a  sketch  of  the 
Admiral's  career,  sketches  of  some  of  the 
officers  under  his  command  and  everything 
else  of  interest  that  flashed  into  my  mind  while 
the  complete  story  was  being  written  and 
assembled.  By  the  time  the  press  crews  had 
reported  the  extra  was  ready  for  them.  Every 
press  in  that  great  battery  was  soon  in  motion 
and  was  kept  going  throughout  the  day  and 
far  into  the  night,  stopping  only  long  enough 
to  change  some  of  the  pages  as  additional  de- 
tails came  from  cable  and  telegraph  wires.    I 


On  the  fTorld's  City  Desk      185 

don't  think  as  many  Evening  Worlds  were  ever 
printed  before  or  since. 

It  may  surprise  many  to  know  that  the  next 
highest  record  in  circulation  figures,  excepting 
the  day  when  news  came  of  the  battle  of  San 
Juan  Hill,  was  when  we  printed  the  report  of  a 
prize  fight  out  in  Nevada.  These  were  high- 
water  marks  in  circulation  until  the  American 
forces  got  into  action  in  France.  Not  even  the 
sinking  of  the  Lusitania  sold  as  many  papers 
as  did  the  prize  fight. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  even  the  most  expe- 
rienced editor  finds  it  difl^cult  to  measure  the 
public's  appetite  for  news.?  I  have  often 
printed  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  startling 
news  that  anyone  would  be  eager  to  read  only 
to  find  out  the  next  day  there  had  been  no  ap- 
preciable increase  in  circulation.  Other  days 
when  the  paper  was  below  the  average  in  news 
interest,  there  would  be  unexpected  sales  that 
no  one  in  the  oflftce  could  explain. 

Cutting  down  our  staff  to  give  soldiers  to  the 
Army  in  Cuba,  prompted  me  to  try  a  new 
experiment  in  gathering  news  of  the  city,  or 
rather  the  Metropolitan  district,  for  the  city 


186     On  the  IForld's  City  Desk 

editor  and  his  reporters  are  responsible  for 
covering  all  of  the  news  happenings  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  the  office.  It  had  been  the 
customary  practice  up  to  this  time  to  send  a 
reporter  from  the  office  to  even  remote  parts 
of  the  city  and  wait  until  he  had  gathered  his 
facts  and  returned  to  the  office  before  his  story 
was  written.  With  extras  being  sent  to  press 
every  hour  or  oftener,  the  necessity  arose  for 
more  expeditious  methods.  I  made  a  sort  of 
checkerboard  of  the  entire  news  district  and 
stationed  a  reporter  in  each  of  the  squares,  the 
principle  being  similar  to  the  peg  post  system 
that  Commissioner  Waldo  afterward  adopted 
for  the  police  force.  Each  reporter  was  held 
responsible  for  all  news  happening  in  the 
square  to  which  he  was  assigned  and  he  was 
required  always  to  keep  in  communication 
with  the  office  by  telephone.  If  there  was  a 
fire,  a  murder,  a  suicide  or  any  other  event 
worth  printing,  he  must  get  to  it  and  obtain 
all  the  facts,  and  instead  of  wasting  valuable 
time  by  coming  to  the  office  he  was  to  tele- 
phone the  details  to  an  experienced  writer,  the 
latter  weaving  the  facts  into  a  finished  story 


On  the  fForld's  City  Desk     187 

for  the  paper.  In  newspaper  offices  all  news 
articles  that  are  not  mere  items  are  designated 
as  stories,  whether  about  politics,  crime,  fi- 
nance or  society. 

When  the  new  system  of  news  gathering 
was  first  introduced,  I  was  somewhat  appre- 
hensive that  accuracy  might  be  sacrificed  for 
speed.  To  guard  against  this  I  organized  a 
writing  staff  that  was  composed  of  experienced 
men  who  not  only  could  write  but  who  had 
won  their  way  to  the  top  of  the  profession  by 
covering  every  description  of  news,  and  who 
were  intimately  familiar  with  every  part  of  the 
greater  city  and  its  suburbs.  They  were 
"star"  men  and  they  became  widely  known  as 
the  most  accomplished  and  best-paid  news 
writers  in  the  Metropolis.  There  wasn't  one 
among  them  who  considered  himself  over- 
worked when  he  had  taken  over  the  telephone 
and  written  on  a  typewriter  a  dozen  stories  of 
from  five  hundred  to  three  thousand  words 
each  in  a  single  day,  and  for  as  many  days  as 
opportunity  afforded. 

To  me  they  were  always  wonderful.  I 
watched  them  day  after  day  through  a  long 


i88     On  the  fForld's  City  Desk 

stretch  of  years  and  marveled  at  what  they 
accomplished.  The  reporters  who  did  the  leg 
work  and  fed  their  stories  through  the  tele- 
phone to  the  rewrite  men,  were  quick  to  fall  in 
with  the  new  method  and  it  was  surprising 
what  perfect  word  pictures  most  of  them  gave 
of  what  they  saw  and  heard,  and  how  complete 
were  their  stories  in  incident  and  detail. 

To  guard  against  inaccuracies,  a  leg  man 
was  required  to  spell  all  proper  names  and  to 
read  his  story  carefully  after  it  was  printed 
and  call  the  city  editor's  attention  to  even  the 
smallest  mistake.  In  this  way  a  spirit  of 
rivalry  was  stimulated  between  reporters  and 
the  men  who  wrote  their  stories,  each  calling 
the  other  to  strict  account  if  an  inaccuracy 
was  detected. 

The  reputations  of  our  able  rewrite  battery 
spread  so  widely  that  they  were  always  sought 
after  by  other  newspapers  and  magazines  and 
by  big  business  industries.  Most  of  them  are 
commanding  high  salaries  wherever  they  may 
be.  One  of  the  ablest  was  Barton  Currie,  now 
editor  of  Country  Gentleman.  He  was  with  us 
for  more  than  ten  years  and  I  never  parted 


On  the  fForld*s  City  Desk     189 

with  an  associate  with  keener  regret.  The 
Curtis  people  lured  him  away  by  doubling  the 
large  salary  the  Evening  World  paid  him.  He 
was  such  a  finished  and  brilliant  writer  of  news 
that  I  sometimes  wonder  why  he  is  using  his 
talents  to  tell  farmers  how  to  coax  hens  to  lay 
two  eggs  a  day. 

Irving  Cobb  was  another  of  our  stars.  He 
was  a  small  salaried  reporter  on  the  Evening 
Sun  when  my  attention  was  first  called  to  his 
work.  I  asked  him  to  come  and  see  me  and 
was  so  favorably  impressed  that  he  got  a  job 
on  the  Evening  World  at  double  the  salary  he 
was  then  getting,  and  I  doubled  it  again  before 
the  Saturday  Evening  Post  grabbed  him  and 
sent  him  over  to  Germany  when  the  war  began. 

Cobb  is  the  homeliest  man  and  one  of  the 
cleverest  I  ever  knew.  As  an  all  around  news- 
paper writer  he  is  worth  his  weight  in  gold, 
and  he  weighs  something  under  a  ton.  He  was 
a  crack  reporter  in  addition  to  being  an  accom- 
plished writer. 

My  only  quarrel  with  Cobb  was  that  he 
insisted  on  posing  as  a  humorist.  His  idea 
was  to  turn  even  the  most  serious  and  tragic 


190     On  the  fT  or  Id's  City  Desk 

happening  into  a  laugh.  One  of  the  wittiest 
stories  he  ever  wrote  was  about  a  woman 
splitting  her  husband's  skull  with  an  ax.  I 
was  the  only  one  who  was  permitted  to  enjoy 
its  humor,  for  it  went  into  the  wastebasket. 
One  of  his  brightest  witticisms  was  at  my 
expense.  It  slipped  out  unpremeditatedly 
one  day  when  word  was  sent  to  the  office  that 
I  wouldn't  be  down  because  of  illness. 

"Dear  me,  let  us  hope  it  is  nothing  trivial," 
said  the  sympathetic  Cobb,  without  looking 
up  from  his  typewriter. 

One  of  Cobb's  greatest  achievements  as  a 
reporter  was  during  the  trial  of  Harry  Thaw. 
I  think  he  averaged  more  than  twelve  thou- 
sand words  a  day,  taking  all  of  the  testimony 
in  longhand  and  writing  a  running  account  as 
the  trial  progressed.  What  he  wrote  was  tele- 
phoned direct  from  the  courtroom  to  the  office, 
taken  by  a  rapid  typist  and  passed  to  composi- 
tors, not  more  than  five  minutes  intervening 
before  what  was  spoken  in  court  was  in  type 
in  the  Evening  World.  There  was  no  story  of 
that  famous  trial  that  touched  him  for  accu- 
racy and  literary  style. 


On  the  World's  City  Desk     191 

Martin  Green  has  been  a  shining  star  on  the 
Evening  World  rewrite  staff  for  eighteen  years 
and  there  is  no  better  in  the  profession.  I 
have  known  him  to  cover  a  National  poUtical 
convention  unaided  and  send  a  better  account 
of  it  than  the  combined  efforts  of  a  half-dozen 
representatives  of  a  rival.  He  went  to  France 
soon  after  the  first  Pershing  expedition  was 
sent  over  and  the  descriptive  stories  of  battles 
and  trench  life  that  he  cabled  to  the  Evening 
World  made  the  other  war  correspondents 
look  like  a  bunch  of  cubs. 

Another  of  our  crack  men  was  Bob  Ritchie, 
who  also  went  to  France  as  war  correspondent 
and  was  made  manager  of  a  great  news  syn- 
dicate with  headquarters  in  London,  directing 
from  there  the  activities  of  a  large  force  of 
correspondents  in  various  parts  of  Europe. 

Will  Inglis,  after  many  years  of  service  with 
us,  left  to  become  a  literary  secretary  with 
the  richest  man  in  the  world.  I  am  told  that 
the  permanency  of  his  job  solely  depends  on  the 
doctors  keeping  his  employer  alive  and  from 
all  accounts  old  John  D.  has  a  lot  of  kick  left 
in  him.     Lindsey  Denison,  who  could  write 


192     On  the  fForWs  City  Desk 

circles  around  most  newspaper  men,  aban- 
doned his  typewriter  to  become  a  captain  in 
the  army.  "Cupid"  Jordan  was  one  of  our 
wittiest  writers  and  as  clever  in  their  way  were 
Jimmy  Loughboro,  Joe  Brady,  and  a  lot  of 
other  bright  chaps,  for  whom  I  have  always 
felt  a  deeper  affection  than  they  perhaps 
credited  me  with. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEWSPAPERING   TO-DAY 

Many  newspaper  readers  have  a  mistaken 
impression  that  reporters  wander  aimlessly 
around  the  city,  gathering  news  wherever  they 
chance  to  run  across  it.  It  may  surprise  them 
to  learn  that  during  the  entire  twenty  years 
that  I  was  city  editor  of  the  Evening  World 
I  do  not  think  there  was  a  half-dozen  times 
when  a  reporter  brought  into  the  office  a  news 
story  that  he  wasn't  sent  after. 

It  seldom  happens  that  a  reporter  stumbles 
upon  news  by  chance.  Gathering  the  news  of 
a  great  city  is  a  carefully  thought-out  and  sys- 
tematized piece  of  human  machinery  that 
operates  under  the  personal  supervision  of  the 
city  editor.  There  are  news  centers  like  the 
criminal  and  civil  courts,  the  municipal  offices, 
police  headquarters  and  precinct  station 
houses,  the  important  hotels,  the  theaters, 
13  193 


194         Newspapering  To-day 

and  the  places  where  politicians  congregate, 
where  reporters  are  constantly  on  the  alert 
and  are  held  responsible  for  the  routine  news 
that  is  certain  to  turn  up.  There  are  reporters 
stationed  on  the  water  front  who  board  every 
passenger  ship  at  quarantine  and  make  frequent 
trips  to  the  customhouse  and  shipping  offices. 

The  big  news,  that  which  commands  atten- 
tion and  is  conspicuously  displayed  on  the 
front  page,  is  either  the  unexpected  or  news 
that  is  obtained  through  the  persistent  inves- 
tigation of  reporters  working  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  city  editor. 

The  unexpected  news,  such  as  fires,  murders, 
suicides,  elopements,  and  business  failures, 
comes  to  a  newspaper  in  a  variety  of  ways, 
chiefly  through  the  police.  Every  one  of  the 
twelve  thousand  policemen  in  New  York  is 
unconsciously  a  newspaper  reporter.  He  must 
telephone  to  his  precinct  station  every  happen- 
ing that  comes  to  his  notice  and  from  there  it 
is  promptly  transmitted  to  police  headquarters. 
A  bulletin  is  then  posted  at  headquarters  for 
newspaper  reporters  to  copy  and  telephone  to 
their  city  editors. 


Newspapering  To-day         195 

Within  ten  minutes  after  a  murder  is  dis- 
covered in  the  most  remote  section  of  the  city, 
news  of  it  should  be  on  the  desk  of  every  city 
editor.  Nearly  all  of  the  criminal  happenings, 
together  with  accidents  in  the  streets,  the  sub- 
ways and  on  railroads,  reach  the  newspaper 
offices  through  the  police.  At  headquarters, 
also,  alarms  are  sounded  on  a  gong,  within 
hearing  of  the  reporters,  and  the  location  of  all 
fires  is  telephoned  to  the  city  editors  almost 
simultaneously  with  the  sounding  of  the  alarm 
and  a  city  editor  telephones  to  the  district 
reporter  nearest  to  the  point  where  the  fire  or 
other  happening  is  located,  dispatching  him  to 
cover  it  and  often  calling  upon  reporters  in 
adjacent  districts  to  assist. 

Readers  of  the  paper  frequently  call  on  the 
telephone  to  tell  of  something  they  have  wit- 
nessed. I  have  received  in  this  way  tips  from 
men  in  almost  every  station  of  life.  A  bank 
president  has  called  up  to  report  a  thrilling 
runaway  in  Fifth  Avenue,  a  Federal  Judge  to 
tell  of  a  fatal  automobile  collision  on  Riverside 
Drive,  a  florist  to  tell  of  the  sudden  death  of  a 
great  financier,  and  one  of  the  most  prominent 


196         Newspapering  To-day 

corporation  lawyers  in  lower  Broadway  once 
got  me  on  the  telephone  to  report  that  he  had 
just  seen  a  man  leap  from  the  fifteenth  story 
of  a  skyscraper  across  from  his  office. 

Most  city  editors  have  an  extensive  list  of 
acquaintances  who  telephone  to  him  out  of 
friendship  whenever  they  see  or  hear  anything 
they  think  might  be  of  interest.  I  recall  the 
time  Bob  Davis,  editor  of  Munsey's  Magazine, 
got  me  on  the  telephone  to  tell  of  a  disastrous 
train  collision  in  the  tunnel  at  Grand  Central 
railway  station,  in  which  many  were  killed 
and  many  injured.  He  had  been  on  the  train 
and  as  soon  as  he  could  crawl  out  of  the  wreck 
he  hurried  to  the  nearest  telephone  to  let  me 
know  what  had  happened.  In  five  minutes 
twenty  of  our  best  reporters  were  on  their  way 
to  report  the  details  of  the  accident. 

Although  he  is  one  of  the  highest  salaried 
magazine  editors  in  America,  I  sent  Bob  a 
check  for  twenty-five  dollars.  I  was  told 
that  instead  of  cashing  the  check  Bob  had 
it  framed  and  that  it  still  hangs  in  his  office 
as  a  testimonial  of  the  first  honest  money 
he  had  earned  since  Frank  Munsey  gave  him 


Newspapering  To-day         i97 

a  twenty-five  thousand  dollar  a  year  job  edi- 
ting a  magazine. 

Some  of  the  best  and  most  reliable  tips  come 
from  women,  particularly  women  in  business 
and  women  telephone  operators.  It  is  custom- 
ary to  compensate  them  for  their  trouble  and 
once  a  tipster  has  received  a  newspaper  check 
for  something  that  cost  him  but  little  time  and 
trouble,  he  is  always  on  the  alert  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  earn  another.  I  have  frequently  re- 
warded a  telephone  operator  for  a  tip  that  took 
not  more  than  two  minutes  to  transmit,  with 
a  check  that  was  more  than  twice  her  wages 
for  a  full  week^s  work. 

Clerks  in  big  law  offices  often  betray  secrets 
of  their  employers  and  clients  for  what  they 
can  get  from  a  newspaper  for  a  tip,  the  news- 
paper not  knowing  that  the  tipster  is  guilty  of 
disloyalty.  Some  of  these  chaps  are  shrewds 
and  wary  and  will  barter  for  the  sale  of  infor- 
mation until  they  frequently  are  paid  far  more 
than  their  tip  is  worth.  It  is  from  rascally 
clerks  of  this  character  that  most  of  the  sensa- 
tional news  about  divorce  suits  and  breach  of 
promise  cases  leaks  out.    I  have  often  had  a 


198         Newspapering  To-day 

fifteen  dollar  a  week  stenographer  in  some  law 
office  offer  to  let  me  read  the  papers  in  some 
sensational  lawsuit  long  before  the  papers 
were  filed  in  court.  For  this  privilege  they 
asked  all  the  way  from  fifty  dollars  to  a  thou- 
sand dollars.  Usually  their  prices  were  sub- 
ject to  compromise. 

Sometimes  tips  come  in  that  are  untrue,  but 
these  are  easily  exploded  by  the  investigation 
of  experienced  reporters.  One  of  the  most 
persistent  tips  of  this  character  I  ever  had  to 
do  with  was  connected  with  the  death  of  a 
multimillionaire  with  presidential  aspirations. 
I  was  driving  past  his  home  on  Fifth  Avenue 
the  day  he  died  and  a  physician  who  had 
just  come  from  his  bedside  stopped  me  to 
tell  of  his  patient's  death.  He  gave  me  all 
of  the  particulars  of  his  illness  and  I  had 
no  reason  for  doubting  his  veracity.  Yet  the 
following  day  word  came  from  more  than  a 
dozen  sources  that  the  millionaire  had  been 
shot  in  his  box  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  by  a  jealous  husband.  Investigation 
showed  that  it  was  untrue,  but  the  rumor 
spread  all  over  the  city  and  kept  reaching  me 


Newspapering  To-day         199 

through  tipsters  long  after  the  man  was  in 
his  grave. 

A  similar  rumor  was  associated  with  the 
death  of  the  president  of  one  of  the  great  trust 
companies,  who  shot  himself  at  his  home  a  few 
hours  after  the  trust  company  closed  its  doors 
at  the  beginning  of  a  financial  panic.  I  knew 
the  man  and  what  prompted  self-destruction 
but  tipsters  came  hurrying  to  my  office  the 
following  day  to  tell  that  he  had  been  slain  by 
a  popular  actress.  The  scandalous  rumor  was 
kept  alive  for  a  long  time  in  all  of  the  fashion- 
able clubs  and  was  revived  and  magnified 
when  the  actress,  whose  name  was  linked  with 
the  banker's,  killed  herself  in  a  southern  city. 
I  know  as  positively  as  it  is  possible  to  know 
anything  one  is  not  an  eyewitness  to,  that  the 
actress  did  not  murder  him. 

Another  tip  that  came  to  the  ofl^ice  from  a 
hundred  diff^erent  persons  and  was  told  with 
more  than  ordinary  circumstantial  detail,  was 
connected  with  the  alleged  mysterious  dis- 
appearance of  a  beautiful  society  girl.  The 
story  ran  that  she  was  looking  at  laces  in  a 
Fifth  Avenue  department  store  when  a  strange 


200         Newspapering  To-day 

elderly  woman  spoke  to  her  and  casually  men- 
tioned that  she  knew  of  some  wonderful 
bargains  in  laces  that  were  to  be  found  in  a 
small  shop  that  was  run  by  Armenians  in  a 
side  street  not  far  away.  The  woman  offered 
to  go  with  the  society  girl  and  show  her  the 
place  and  they  left  the  department  store  to- 
gether. As  they  reached  the  street  they 
encountered  the  society  girl's  fiance.  She  told 
him  where  she  was  going  and  hurried  along, 
after  making  an  engagement  to  meet  him  for 
luncheon  in  an  hour  at  a  nearby  restaurant. 

The  young  man  waited  for  her  long  after 
the  appointed  time  and  growing  uneasy,  tele- 
phoned to  her  home  and  finding  she  wasn't 
there  went  in  search  of  her  in  the  side  street 
where  she  told  him  the  lace  shop  was  located. 
He  found  one  that  had  an  Armenian  proprie- 
tor in  a  basement  and  when  he  began  ques- 
tioning the  Armenian  he  replied  so  evasively 
that  the  young  man  ran  into  the  street  and 
summoned  a  policeman  to  aid  him  in  search- 
ing the  shop.  On  returning  with  the  officer 
the  shop  was  locked  and  the  proprietor  had 
disappeared.    They  broke  into  the  shop  and 


Newspapering  To-day        201 

in  a  back  room  found  the  society  girl.  Her 
clothing  had  been  torn  from  her  and  she  had 
been  so  brutally  treated  that  she  was  uncon- 
scious. They  took  her  to  a  hospital  and  when 
consciousness  was  restored  she  was  hopelessly 
insane. 

I  have  told  the  story  here  almost  word  for 
word  as  it  was  told  to  me  many  times  by  as 
many  different  persons.  There  was  little  or 
no  variation  and  it  came  from  so  many  per- 
sons of  apparent  reliability  that  I  refused  for 
a  long  time  to  accept  the  word  of  reporters  that 
investigated  it  that  the  entire  story  was  a  pal- 
pable fake.  The  only  fact  they  found  in  way 
of  corroboration  was  a  small  lace  shop  run  by 
an  Armenian  in  a  basement  on  the  side  street 
that  had  been  named,  but  the  Armenian  was 
known  in  the  neighborhood  as  a  reputable 
merchant.  He  had  been  there  for  years  and 
so  far  as  I  know  is  still  there. 

Not  satisfied  with  the  investigations  made 
by  reporters,  I  personally  went  to  Police  Com- 
missioner Waldo,  roused  his  interest  by  telling 
him  that  a  magistrate  and  many  persons  of 
equal  prominence  had  come  to  me  with  the 


202         Newspapering  To-day 

story,  all  telling  the  details  practically  alike, 
and  the  Commissioner  was  so  much  impressed 
that  he  ordered  a  thorough  investigation  by 
the  ablest  detectives  in  the  department. 
There  is  no  longer  any  doubt  in  my  mind  that 
it  was  a  fake  from  beginning  to  end.  The  only 
solution  I  could  ever  conjecture  was  that  the 
story  must  have  been  manufactured  and  in- 
dustriously circulated  by  vindictive  enemies 
of  the  Armenian  lace  merchant  to  injure  his 
business  standing. 

Another  fake  that  was  even  more  widely 
circulated  and  which  came  to  me  day  after 
day  for  weeks,  was  that  a  young  girl  had  been 
found  murdered  in  the  lavatory  of  a  Brooklyn 
department  store.  So  persistent  was  this  re- 
port that  newspapers  were  accused  of  suppress- 
ing a  horrible  crime  because  they  were  afraid 
of  incurring  the  displeasure  of  a  big  advertiser. 
Yet  there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  the  story, 
or  a  single  fact  on  which  to  base  it,  other  than 
the  name  of  the  department  store. 

If  it  had  been  true  all  of  the  advertisers 
combined  could  not  have  prevented  publica- 
tion.   Although  some  uninformed  persons  may 


Newspapering  To-day         203 

think  differently,  the  silence  of  a  New  York 
newspaper  is  not  purchasable  at  any  price,  nor 
are  newspapers  like  the  World  ever  intimidated 
into  withholding  news  by  any  of  its  advertising 
patrons.  I  have  known,  however,  of  several 
instances  where  big  advertisers  withdrew  their 
advertisements  because  they  were  unable  to 
bluff  an  editor  into  suppressing  some  perfectly 
legitimate  piece  of  news. 

Another  demonstration  of  what  editor  Mc- 
Cullagh  meant  when  he  said  "Journalism  is 
the  art  of  knowing  where  hell  is  going  to  break 
loose  next  and  having  a  reporter  on  the  spot  to 
cover  it,"  forcibly  came  to  me  at  the  time 
Mayor  Gaynor  was  shot  on  the  deck  of  a 
steamship  as  he  was  about  to  sail  for  Europe. 
Early  in  the  morning  of  that  day,  I  sent  a 
reporter  to  the  Mayor's  home  in  Brooklyn, 
thinking  to  get  a  more  satisfactory  interview 
than  could  be  had  amid  the  bustle  and  con- 
fusion on  a  ship  that  is  about  to  take  her 
departure. 

After  the  reporter  telephoned  the  result  of 
the  interview,  I  directed  him  to  accompany 
the  Mayor  to  his  ship  in  Hoboken  and  to  re- 


204         Newspapering  To-day 

main  with  him  until  the  ship  sailed.  I  sent  a 
man  with  a  camera  to  meet  him  and  to  get  a 
photograph  of  the  Mayor. 

Reporter  and  photographer  were  aboard  of 
the  ship  when  one  of  the  most  sensational 
news  happenings  of  the  year  took  place,  a 
crazy  assassin  shooting  down  the  Mayor 
because  of  a  fancied  grievance  he  had  been 
brooding  over.  It  so  chanced  that  the  shot 
was  fired  at  the  very  instant  the  photographer 
clicked  his  camera.  The  film  showed  the 
wounded  Mayor  sinking  into  the  arms  of  those 
closest  to  him.  The  photographer  turned  his 
camera  and  clicked  it  again  as  "Big  Bill" 
Edwards  grappled  with  the  madman  and 
hurled  him  to  the  deck.  Within  an  hour  both 
pictures  appeared  on  the  front  page  of  the 
Evening  World. 

One  very  dull  day,  when  there  was  a  dearth 
of  news,  my  telephone  rang  and  an  excited 
voice  reported  that  a  big  excursion  steamer 
was  ablaze  in  the  East  River.  The  man  said 
he  could  see  men,  women,  and  children  jump- 
ing overboard  in  a  mad  panic  to  escape  from 
the  flames.    He  hung  up  before  I  could  ask  a 


Newspapering  To-day         205 

question  or  obtain  from  him  the  location  of  the 
burning  steamboat.  In  a  jiffy  a  half-dozen 
men  were  in  telephone  booths  calling  up  points 
along  the  river  for  verification  of  what  the 
man  had  reported  and  as  soon  as  the  boat  was 
located  twenty  of  our  reporters  were  hurrying 
to  the  scene  of  disaster.  I  never  witnessed 
more  splendid  team  work. 

The  steamer  was  the  General  Slocum, 
crowded  far  beyond  her  legal  capacity  with 
Sunday  school  children  and  their  parents. 
Survivors  were  dragged  by  reporters  from  the 
water  and  rushed  down  to  the  World  building 
to  tell  their  stories  of  what  happened,  the  re- 
porters scurrying  back  after  additional  news. 
The  boat  was  still  burning  and  rescuers  were 
combing  the  waters  about  her  for  survivors 
when  our  extra  appeared  on  the  street. 
Another  extra  was  issued  soon  afterward  and 
within  an  hour  was  followed  by  another,  the 
story  having  grown  into  four  full  pages  of  the 
newspapers,  with  a  dozen  or  more  graphic 
illustrations. 

I  recall  that  Harry  Stowe,  one  of  the  most 
reliable  reporters  on  the  staff,  anxiously  in- 


2o6         Newspapering  To-day 

quired  of  me  over  the  telephone  what  estimate 
we  were  printing  of  the  loss  of  life  and  when  I 
replied  that  our  figures  indicated  that  between 
three  and  four  hundred  were  believed  to  have 
perished,  he  excitedly  declared  that  there  were 
not  less  than  a  thousand.  I  cautioned  him 
against  exaggeration  and  didn't  change  our 
estimate.  The  actual  loss  of  life  was  even 
greater  than  the  estimate  given  by  Stowe. 

On  another  dull  day  all  of  us  were  suddenly 
startled  by  a  series  of  terrifying  explosions  that 
jarred  the  World  building  to  the  foundation. 
We  heard  the  crashing  of  glass  in  buildings  all 
around  us  and  from  the  windows  saw  crowds 
rushing  wildly  through  the  streets.  The  noise 
was  like  a  bombardment. 

Instantly  a  dozen  telephones  were  active, 
our  men  calling  in  every  direction  to  locate  the 
explosion.  Calls  came  in  from  all  over  the 
city  and  suburban  surroundings  from  excited 
ones  who  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened. 
All  that  our  men  could  learn  was  that  the 
explosion  was  across  the  river  in  Jersey.  We 
directed  all  our  energies  then  to  calling  up 
points  over  there,  but  no  one  appeared  to 


Newspapering  To-day         207 

know  where  it  was  located  and  the  only  infor- 
mation obtainable  was  that  the  damage  was 
widespread.  A  score  of  reporters  hurried 
across  the  river  on  a  blind  hunt. 

Nearly  an  hour  went  by  and  we  were  still 
groping  for  information,  though  every  second 
of  the  time  we  kept  the  telephones  in  opera- 
tion. Such  a  condition  had  never  confronted 
us  before  and  all  of  us  grew  wildly  impatient 
with  our  impotence. 

Don  Seitz,  the  publisher,  who  had  heard  the 
explosions  and  the  crashing  of  glass  and  who 
had  been  importuned  by  telephone  inquiries, 
tore  into  the  editorial  rooms  and  angrily  de- 
manded an  explanation  of  why  plates  for  an 
extra  hadn't  reached  the  pressmen.  I  at- 
tempted to  explain  but  it  was  of  no  use.  He 
didn't  want  explanations,  he  wanted  an  extra. 
Publishers  get  that  way  when  they  know 
something  has  happened  that  the  public  is 
eager  to  read  about  and  the  presses  are  not  in 
action. 

Then  came  the  news  we  had  been  straining 
our  nerves  to  get.  Irving  Cobb  was  one  of  our 
staff  who  had  gone  out  of  the  office  soon  after 


2o8         Newspapering  To-day 

the  explosion  almost  shook  us  from  our  chairs 
and  had  located  it  after  a  wild  chase  in  an 
automobile.  The  account  he  gave  over  the 
telephone  wire  of  what  had  happened  when 
the  dynamite  dock  blew  up  was  far  more 
complete  and  comprehensive  than  I  read  in 
any  of  our  contemporaries. 

The  remainder  of  the  story,  the  damage  in 
the  financial  district,  the  havoc  in  the  harbor 
and  the  effect  in  all  of  the  nearby  towns  in 
New  Jersey  and  on  Staten  Island,  was  in  the 
office  and  most  of  it  in  type  before  we  located 
the  spot  where  it  happened  and  what  had 
caused  it.  Our  extra  was  on  the  street  ahead 
of  any  of  the  others  and  that  night  the  pub- 
lisher slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the 
righteous. 

It  was  "having  a  reporter  on  the  spot  when 
hell  broke  loose*'  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean  that 
gave  the  Evening  World  one  of  the  largest  news 
beats  it  ever  had.  Some  will  call  it  luck,  but 
here  is  the  way  it  happened:  A  few  days  before 
the  Titanic  crashed  into  an  iceberg  and 
dragged  to  the  bottom  so  many  brave  men 
and  women,  a  reporter  for  Mr.  Pulitzer's  paper 


Newspapering  To-day         209 

in  St.  Louis,  the  Post-Dispatch^  called  to  see 
me.  He  was  taking  a  vacation  and  was  to  sail 
the  next  morning  for  Italy.  I  was  so  busy 
that  I  could  spare  but  a  few  minutes  to  chat 
with  him,  long  enough,  however,  for  me  to 
learn  that  he  was  to  go  on  the  Carpathia  of  the 
Cunard  Line,  a  bit  of  information  that  proved 
valuable  in  a  time  of  pressing  necessity  that 
was  soon  to  come. 

When  news  of  the  Titanic  disaster  was 
flashed  into  our  office  one  morning  and  with  it 
the  information  that  the  Carpathia  had  come 
to  the  rescue  and  was  picking  up  survivors 
from  lifeboats  and  rafts,  I  instantly  thought 
of  the  Post-Dispatch  reporter  and  sent  him  a 
wireless  to  prepare  a  complete  story  and  I 
would  meet  the  Carpathia  with  a  tugboat  off 
Sandy  Hook. 

Before  sunrise  the  following  morning  several 

of  the  Evening  World's  reporters  accompanied 

me  to  Sandy  Hook  on  the  fastest  tug  in  the 

harbor  and  we  sat  all  day  in  the  tower  of  the 

wireless  station  waiting  for  the  Carpathia  to 

show  up.     It  was   night  when  she   entered 

Ambrose  Channel.     Our  tug  steamed  along- 
14 


210        Newspapering  To-day 

side  and  when  we  shouted  through  a  mega- 
phone for  the  Post-Dispatch  man,  he  leaned 
far  out  over  the  rail  from  an  upper  deck  and 
dropped  a  bundle  of  manuscript,  tied  to  a  life 
preserver,  into  my  outstretched  arms.  There 
was  a  dozen  columns  of  a  brilliantly  told  story 
with  all  of  the  thrilling  details  of  heroism,  of 
wives  refusing  to  separate  from  husbands  who 
were  denied  a  place  in  the  lifeboats,  of  brave 
men  who  perished  that  women  and  children 
might  be  saved,  of  the  Titanic' s  commander 
who  swam  to  a  lifeboat  with  a  child  in  his 
arms  and  deliberately  swam  away  to  a  grave 
beneath  the  sea. 

The  tugboat  nearly  burst  her  boilers  racing 
at  full  speed  to  the  Battery  that  we  might  get 
to  the  office  with  our  story  and  issue  an  extra 
that  all  New  York  was  feverishly  waiting  for. 
Newsboys  were  crying  the  extras  throughout 
the  city  before  the  Carpathia  was  at  her  dock. 

Besides  giving  the  Evening  World  a  splendid 
beat  over  all  of  its  rivals,  the  story  the  Post'Dis- 
patch  man  brought  enabled  the  Morning  World 
to  have  a  complete  account  in  the  edition  that 
goes  to  other  cities,  while  the  other  morning 


Newspapering  To-day         211 

papers  were  many  hours  in  gathering  a  com- 
paratively fragmentary  story  from  survivors 
and  crew  after  the  Carpathia  had  been  docked. 

Ralph  Pulitzer,  who  inherited  a  spirit  of 
liberality  toward  his  employees  from  his 
father,  presented  the  Post-Dispatch  man  with 
a  thousand  dollars  in  cash  that  night  and 
authorized  him  to  double  the  time  allotted 
for  his  vacation  abroad.  For  the  little  I  did 
towards  securing  the  beat,  he  rewarded  me 
almost  as  generously. 

The  Pulitzers  have  always  been  magnani- 
mous toward  men  who  work  for  them.  Per- 
haps it  is  one  of  the  reasons  of  their  phenom- 
enal success.  The  great  genius  who  made  the 
World  seldom  let  a  week  go  by  without  dis- 
tributing benefits  among  those  he  thought 
deserving  of  special  generosity.  Every  man 
who  by  luck  or  industry  scored  an  important 
beat  or  turned  in  an  unusually  well-written 
story,  sometimes  simply  a  striking  headline, 
was  almost  certain  to  receive  a  substantial 
check  from  the  proprietor. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  loved  his  profession,  loved  his 
newspaper,  and  loved  his  men.     He  was  a 


212         Newspapering  To-day 

bigger  man  in  all  that  goes  to  make  up  a  man 
who  is  truly  great,  than  any  other  man  I  ever 
knew.  Humanity  lost  a  scholarly  teacher  and 
devoted  friend  when  death  stilled  his  activities. 

Once  when  he  was  at  a  health  resort  in  the 
south  of  France,  a  secretary  brought  in  a 
bundle  of  newspapers  to  be  read  to  the  blind 
publisher.  There  was  an  accumulation  of 
copies  of  all  of  his  publications  for  several 
weeks,  for  he  had  been  traveling  so  fast  over 
Europe  that  the  mails  from  New  York  hadn't 
overtaken  him.  The  various  editions  of  the 
World  were  gone  carefully  over  and  he  then 
asked  for  the  Post-Dispatch,  on  which  he  first 
achieved  fame  and  laid  the  foundation  for  his 
fortune.  Sam  Williams  started  to  read  and 
stumbled  so  confusedly  that  the  blind  man 
grew  irritable  and  angrily  asked  what  ailed 
him,  for  he  was  always  impatient  of  anything 
he  construed  as  indifference. 

"The  damned  paper  is  so  rottenly  printed 
it  is  almost  unreadable,"  Sam  explained. 
"The  type  is  bad,  the  ink  is  pale  and  dauby, 
the  quality  of  the  paper  is  inferior  and  the 
presswork  is  worse  than  the  rest." 


Newspapering  To-day         213 

"Dear  me,  is  it  really  so  bad  as  all  that," 
replied  Mr.  Pulitzer.  "From  the  way  you 
describe  it  I  think  they  must  have  substituted 
shoe  pegs  for  type  and  tar  for  ink.  Send  a 
cable  to  Chapin  to  go  out  and  take  charge  for 
a  month  and  put  it  in  shape." 

Then  he  summoned  Dunningham,  his  valet, 
to  prepare  him  for  a  nap. 

Almost  before  he  awakened  from  it  I  was 
on  my  way  to  St.  Louis.  I  remained  there  six 
weeks,  making  such  editorial  changes  as  I 
thought  were  necessary  and  causing  the  busi- 
ness manager  no  end  of  anxiety  by  getting  rid 
of  all  of  the  old  type  and  ordering  for  imme- 
diate delivery  an  entirely  new  outfit.  I  did 
other  things  that  I  believed  were  for  the  good 
of  the  paper  and  ended  my  stay  by  engaging 
Horatio  Seymour  to  take  editorial  control. 

The  last  day  I  was  in  St.  Louis  a  dispatch 
came  from  Chicago,  announcing  the  suspen- 
sion of  the  Chronicle  of  that  city.  Mr.  Sey- 
mour, who  was  editor  of  the  Chicago  Herald 
when  I  was  its  city  editor,  had  become  editor 
and  publisher  of  the  Chronicle,  backed  by 
John  R.  Walsh,  a  banker,  who  had  formerly 


214         Newspapering  To-day 

owned  the  Herald.  Walsh  had  just  been  sent 
to  prison  for  a  swindle  involving  many  millions 
and  his  downfall  had  wrecked  the  Chronicle. 
I  located  Mr.  Seymour  amid  the  ruins  by  long- 
distance telephone  and  made  an  engagement 
to  meet  him  in  Chicago  the  next  morning. 

In  the  disconsolate  mess  I  found  him  in  it 
didn't  require  much  persuasion  to  induce  him 
to  accept  the  editorship  of  the  Post-Dispatch 
at  a  liberal  salary  and  with  a  contract  that 
insured  permanency.  He  got  a  good  job  that 
will  endure  as  long  as  he  wishes  it  to  and  Mr. 
Pulitzer  gained  one  of  the  brainiest  editorial 
men  that  American  journalism  has  produced. 

After  we  had  arranged  the  details  I  left  for 
New  York,  caught  a  severe  cold  in  the  sleeper 
and  was  sick  abed  when  my  employer  returned 
from  Europe,  a  few  days  later.  As  was  his 
custom  when  he  got  back  from  an  extended 
trip,  Mr.  Pulitzer  had  a  bundle  of  papers 
brought  to  his  home  and  read  to  him.  On 
opening  the  Post-Dispatch  the  secretary  com- 
mented on  its  improved  appearance.  Mr. 
Pulitzer  had  the  paper  fully  described  and  was 
told  that  I  had  bought  entirely  new  type. 


Newspapering  To-day         215 

"Who  authorized  him  to  do  that?"  asked 
the  Chief. 

"He  did  it  of  his  own  initiative.  Chapin 
does  things  and  gets  his  authority  for  what  he 
does  afterward.'* 

"Call  up  Shaw  and  tell  him  to  increase 
Chapin's  salary  five  hundred  a  year." 

Then  he  got  me  on  the  telephone  at  my 
home  and  said  so  many  nice  things  that  I  got 
well  in  spite  of  the  doctor. 

When  Mr.  Shaw,  treasurer  of  the  World, 
informed  me  of  the  increase,  he  suggested 
that  I  write  a  note  of  acknowledgment  to  Mr. 
Pulitzer,  who  had  gone  to  his  summer  home 
in  Bar  Harbor.  I  did  so,  thanking  him  for  his 
generosity  and  adding,  "  I  can  wish  myself  no 
better  luck  than  to  be  permitted  to  continue 
in  your  service  as  long  as  I  work  for  anyone." 

The  return  mail  brought  this  from  his  con- 
fidential man  of  business: 

"The  Chief  was  so  much  pleased  with  your 
letter  that  he  has  wired  to  Shaw  to  double  the 
increase." 

Lucky  is  he  who  has  such  a  man  for  his 
employer. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    PULITZERS 

Joseph  Pulitzer  was  the  greatest  man  I 
ever  knew;  great  as  a  journalist,  great  as  a 
writer,  great  as  a  business  man,  great  as  a 
scholar,  great  as  a  thinker,  great  in  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  events  of  the  world,  great  as  the 
directing  force  of  a  big  organization  of  work- 
ers. To  be  associated  with  him  and  to  listen 
to  the  wisdom  that  came  from  his  lips  in 
ordinary  conversation,  was  an  education  in 
itself.  To  study  the  working  of  his  wonderful 
mind  was  a  rare  privilege.  Some  of  the  most 
enjoyable  hours  of  my  life  were  spent  in  his 
library  and  in  the  long  drives  we  sometimes 
had  together.  I  never  came  away  from  him 
that  I  did  not  feel  inflated  with  ambition  to 
accomplish  something  big  and  worth  while,  not 
just  something  that  might  attract  his  atten- 
tion   and    perhaps    win    commendation    for 

316 


The  Pulitzers  217 

myself,  but  something  that  would  be  a  credit 
to  the  newspaper  he  was  so  proud  of.  It  was 
the  reflex  of  his  magnetic  personality. 

The  story  of  his  humble  beginning  and  his 
rise  to  greatness  in  the  face  of  obstacles  that 
would  have  kept  most  men  groveling  in  the 
mire,  has  been  told  so  often  and  is  so  familiar 
to  all  I  shall  not  even  attempt  to  sketch  briefly 
his  biography.  I  am  content  to  write  just  a 
few  words  of  the  Great  Master  as  I  knew  him. 
He  was  my  best  friend  among  men.  I  watched 
them  lower  his  body  into  the  grave  and  I  felt  as 
if  my  spirit  were  being  buried  with  him.  I 
loved  Joseph  Pulitzer. 

I  have  heard  what  others  who  professed  to 
know  him  better  than  I  did  said  of  him  after 
he  was  dead.  Some  spoke  with  bitterness, 
called  him  a  tyrant  and  described  him  as 
unfeeling  and  brutal.  My  own  experience 
was  just  the  opposite. 

To  me  he  was  always  kind,  courteous, 
generous,  and  indulgent,  mild  in  criticizing 
and  almost  prodigal  when  praising  my  efforts. 
His  mind  worked  like  a  kinetoscope.  I  felt  a 
keen  delight  while  reading  newspapers  to  him. 


2i8  The  Pulitzers 

he  grasped  everything  so  quickly  and  with 
such  perfect  understanding.  No  matter  what 
the  topic  might  be,  blind  as  he  was,  nothing 
need  be  elaborated  or  explained.  He  instinc- 
tively knew. 

Sometimes  when  I  have  been  reading  to 
him  he  would  become  explosively  profane  over 
an  article  in  the  World  he  disapproved  of,  or 
perhaps  an  editorial  writer  had  not  fully 
comprehended  his  instructions. 

And  how  shockingly  that  blind  man  could 
swear!  With  him  profanity  was  more  of  an 
art  than  a  vice.  Once  when  I  had  read  some- 
thing to  him  that  made  him  angry  with  the 
writer's  stupidity  he  swore  so  passionately 
and  so  loud  and  grew  so  choleric  and  red  in  the 
face,  that  I  feared  something  inside  of  him 
might  snap. 

Suddenly  he  checked  himself  and  pricked 
up  his  ears.  There  were  angry  voices  in  an 
adjoining  room.  One  of  his  young  sons  was 
having  a  run-in  with  his  tutor  and  was  forcibly 
telling  what  he  thought  of  him.  A  peculiar 
expression,  a  mixture  of  annoyance  and  amuse- 
ment, came  over  my  employer's  countenance. 


The  Pulitzers  219 

"Dear  me/*  he  said,  "I  wonder  where  that 
boy  learned  to  swear."  He  didn't  utter  an- 
other oath  during  the  remainder  of  my  visit. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  this  incident  that  I 
learned  a  useful  lesson  that  guided  my  con- 
duct in  all  the  years  afterward  that  I  was 
with  his  newspaper.  He  had  telephoned  to 
my  home  before  six  in  the  morning,  asking  me 
to  call  at  his  home  before  going  to  the  office. 
He  was  breakfasting  alone  when  I  got  there 
and  the  first  question  he  asked  me  was: 
"What  is  the  news  at  the  office?" 

I  replied  that  the  most  important  to  me 
was  that  I  had  discharged  a  dozen  young 
reporters  the  day  before. 

"Were  there  no  good  ones  among  them.?" 
he  asked. 

"Some  were  very  promising  and  in  time 
might  have  developed  into  first-class  men." 

"Then,  why  fire  them?" 

"  I  was  ordered  to  by  Norris." 

John  Norris  was  at  that  time  financial 
manager  of  the  entire  World  establishment. 
Whenever  a  spasm  of  economy  hit  him  he 
would  order  the  head  of  each   department 


220  The  Pulitzers 

to  reduce  his  payroll  and  often  this  involved 
discharging  men  without  regard  for  merit. 
The  last  ones  employed  were  usually  the 
victims.  It  was  a  rotten  thing  to  do  and  all  of 
us  knew  it,  but  Norris  was  supposed  to  have 
full  authority  from  the  proprietor  and  we  took 
it  for  granted  that  when  he  said  retrench  the 
order  must  be  obeyed. 

"But  why  fire  men  you  considered  worth 
keeping.?"  demanded  Mr.  Pulitzer.  He  was 
looking  straight  into  my  face  and  his  blind 
eyes  seemed  to  be  searching  my  inmost 
thoughts. 

"What  could  I  do  but  obey  the  order  from 
Norris.?" 

His  face  twitched  nervously,  there  was  a 
frown  on  his  brow  and  his  compressed  lips 
indicated  irritation. 

"I  know  what  I  would  have  done  had  I  been 
in  your  place,"  was  the  placid  response,  after 
it  had  been  carefully  weighed  in  his  mind. 

He  didn't  explain  in  words  what  he  would 
have  done  and  I  didn't  ask  him  to,  but  the 
next  time  Norris  ordered  me  to  cut  down  the 
staff  I  didn't  do  it.     Norris  fumed  and  fussed 


The  Pulitzers  221 

and  ripped  and  snorted  and  even  threatened, 
but  I  stood  pat  and  never  again  did  I  discharge 
competent  men  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
I  was  ordered  to.  The  financial  manager  who 
came  after  Norris  won  his  reputation  for  effi- 
ciency by  less  destructive  methods. 

If  other  newspaper  proprietors  would  speak 
as  candidly  to  subordinates  as  Mr.  Pulitzer 
did  to  me  that  morning  there  would  be  fewer 
wholesale  dismissals  of  capable  men  at  the 
whim  of  the  chap  who  controls  the  finances. 
It  is  the  instability  of  newspaper  employment 
that  rises  like  a  specter  to  disturb  the  peace 
of  mind  of  every  young  man  who  is  fighting 
for  a  foothold  on  the  elusive  ladder  of  journal- 
istic fame.  They  never  know  when  the 
dreaded  "iron  ball"  will  next  roll  and  knock 
them  out.  I  have  watched  their  faces  when  a 
hateful  blue  envelope  reached  them  with  its 
curt  note  of  dismissal,  and  I  have  seen  the 
look  of  dismay  as  they  packed  their  belongings 
and  silently  headed  for  the  elevator;  and  I 
have  fairly  hated  myself  for  being  in  a  job 
that  made  me  the  instrument  of  such  ruthless 
treatment  of  men. 


222  The  Pulitzers 

Once  when  I  had  breakfasted  with  Mr. 
Pulitzer  he  asked  me  to  read  the  morning 
newspapers  to  him.  While  I  was  opening  the 
bundle  his  butler  brought,  he  lit  a  black  cigar 
and  settled  contentedly  back  in  his  chair  to 
listen.  In  a  few  minutes  he  interrupted  to 
ask  if  his  cigar  was  burning.  With  the  inquiry 
he  blew  a  cloud  of  fragrant  smoke  into  my 
face  and  I  was  nearly  choked. 

I  have  thought  of  this  incident  many  times 
and  I  have  closed  my  eyes  while  smoking  to 
try  and  realize  the  sensation  that  comes  to  a 
blind  man  when  he  is  unable  to  tell  if  his  cigar 
is  lit.  I  have  read  of  the  enjoyment  of  blind 
men  for  tobacco,  but  I  don't  believe  it. 

Another  pathetic  incident  connected  with 
his  blindness  impressed  me  deeply.  We  were 
both  in  London.  I  had  completed  my  vaca- 
tion, after  an  extended  automobile  tour  of 
France  and  England,  and  had  packed  and  was 
intending  to  sail  for  New  York  the  following 
day.  Mr.  Pulitzer  arrived  from  the  continent 
shortly  before  midnight  and  when  he  was  told 
that  I  was  in  London  and  was  to  sail  in  a  few 
hours  he  had  them  call  me  up  and  ask  me  to 


The  Pulitzers  223 

cancel  my  passage  and  come  to  him  the  next 
day  for  luncheon.  He  was  interested  in  all  I 
told  him  about  my  trip  and  insisted  that  I 
remain  at  least  another  week,  suggesting 
points  of  interest  in  and  about  London  he 
particularly  wished  me  to  visit.  Among 
others  were  the  House  of  Commons  and  the 
National  Portrait  Gallery. 

I  spent  the  next  two  days  in  visiting  places 
he  recommended  and  the  third  day  drove  with 
him  through  the  park  and  described  what  I 
had  seen.  I  recall  how  interested  he  was  in 
the  speech  I  had  heard  Chamberlain  deliver, 
of  my  being  invited  to  tea  with  lords  and  their 
ladies  on  the  broad  portico  overlooking  the 
Thames,  of  being  shown  the  wardrobe  of  the 
King  and  his  Queen  in  a  room  off  from  the 
House  of  Lords  and  of  being  permitted  to  sit 
in  the  throne  chair  and  to  recline  on  the 
Cardinal's  woolsack. 

What  interested  him  most  was  the  de- 
scription I  gave  of  the  wonderful  paintings  in 
the  portrait  gallery.  I  had  spent  almost  an 
entire  day  there  and  he  had  me  lead  his  imagi- 
nation through  all  of  the  rooms  as  I  had  visited 


224  The  Pulitzers 

them  and  describe  to  him  the  portraits  of 
English  Kings  and  Queens  of  bygone  centuries 
and  of  some  of  the  famous  men  who  were 
conspicuous  figures  in  the  history  of  Great 
Britain.  When  I  finished  tears  were  flowing 
down  his  cheeks. 

"What  wouldn't  I  give  to  see  what  you 
saw,"  he  sobbed,  as  he  sank  back  into  the 
cushions  of  the  carriage  and  remained  pen- 
sively silent  throughout  the  remainder  of  our 
drive.  I  thought  then  that  I  would  gladly 
have  given  him  one  of  my  eyes  were  it  possible. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  was  ambitious  that  his  three 
sons  should  follow  in  his  footsteps  and  be 
fitted  by  actual  experience  some  day  to 
assume  control  of  his  newspaper  properties. 
They  were  fine  chaps,  the  best  types  of  a 
rich  man's  sons,  but  they  were  full  of  the  joy 
of  youth  and  the  father  seemed  to  expect  them 
to  grow  into  sedate,  serious  men  before  nature 
intended  they  should.  Ralph,  the  eldest  of 
the  three,  came  from  college  and  passed 
through  the  various  stages  of  news  reporting, 
gravitating  to  the  editorial  rooms  after  a  few 
years,  he  having  developed  an  inherent  ambi- 


The  Pulitzers  225 

tion  for  editorial  writing.  Consequently  he 
was  well-equipped  with  actual  experience  as 
well  as  brains  to  assume  active  control  upon 
the  death  of  his  father. 

I  recall  when  young  Joe  came  from  college. 
He  was  a  lovable  lad,  with  many  of  his  father's 
characteristics  and  much  of  his  mother's 
gentleness.  Joe  loved  fun.  Something  at 
college,  bills  I  suspect,  displeased  the  father 
and  by  way  of  discipline  Joe  was  told  that  he 
was  to  be  put  at  work  in  the  office.  Nothing 
could  have  pleased  him  more.  Mr.  Pulitzer 
got  me  on  the  telephone  and  these  were  the 
instructions  he  gave,  as  nearly  as  I  can 
remember: 

"  I  am  sailing  for  Europe  in  the  morning  and 
I  am  sending  Joe  down  to  work  under  you. 
Treat  him  exactly  as  you  would  any  other 
beginner  and  don't  hesitate  to  discipline  him 
should  he  need  it.  There  is  to  be  no  partiality 
shown  because  he  is  my  son.  Do  you  quite 
understand.?" 

"I  think  so." 

"  Promise  me  you  will  do  as  I  ask." 

"Your  instructions  will  be  carried  out." 

IS 


226  The  Pulitzers 

"Good,  I  shall  rely  on  you.  Don't  forget 
about  the  discipline.  I  have  told  him  that  he 
is  to  report  to  you  every  morning  promptly  at 
eight  and  work  until  five.  Please  see  that  he 
does  it  and  that  he  gets  there  on  time.  I  know 
how  you  handle  young  men  and  I  wish  you  to 
do  the  same  with  him  that  you  do  with  them.** 

Joe  came  the  following  morning  and  we 
talked  matters  over.  He  appeared  to  be 
enthusiastic  and  eager.  He  was  assigned  to 
assist  Bob  Wilkes  in  covering  the  Criminal 
Courts  Building.  Wilkes  had  grown  up  in 
the  office,  and  was  a  veteran  reporter  and  I 
knew  that  he  would  be  particularly  interested 
in  breaking  Joe  in.  Joe  reported  for  duty 
promptly  at  eight  for  two  consecutive  morn- 
ings. The  third  morning  he  was  more  than  an 
hour  late.  His  excuse  was  that  the  "butler 
neglected  to  call  me.'*  I  explained  to  him 
that  reporters  were  not  supposed  to  rely  on 
butlers  getting  them  out  of  bed  and  suggested 
that  he  stop  at  a  department  store  on  his  way 
home  and  invest  in  an  alarm  clock.  The 
alarm  clock  did  the  business  and  Joe  got  down 
on  time  for  almost  a  week.    Then  came  a  day 


The  Pulitzers  227 

when  he  failed  to  put  in  even  a  tardy 
appearance. 

When  next  I  saw  him  he  explained  his 
absence  by  saying  that  he  had  been  at  his 
dentist's  an  entire  morning  and  at  a  ball  game 
in  the  afternoon.  We  had  a  serious  talk 
about  it  and  I  tried  to  impress  upon  his 
youthful  mind  that  every  member  of  the  staff 
was  expected  to  obey  the  rules  of  the  office, 
one  of  the  rules  being  that  no  one  should  be 
absent  from  duty  unless  he  were  ill  or  had  been 
excused.  He  was  sorry  he  hadn't  understood 
and  promised  not  to  do  it  again.  The  next 
day  he  asked  to  get  off  in  order  that  he  might 
be  at  the  station  to  welcome  a  girl  friend  who 
was  coming  from  the  West.  The  day  follow- 
ing it  was  a  request  to  spend  the  week-end 
with  the  young  lady's  relatives  in  the  country. 
I  explained  to  him  what  his  father's  instruc- 
tions were,  but  both  of  his  requests  were 
granted. 

There  was  another  week-end  party  a  week 
later  and  Joe  would  very  much  like  to  be  with 
it,  he  positively  wouldn't  ask  again  and  would 
work  very  hard  when  he  got  back  to  make  up 


228  The  Pulitzers 

for  his  absence.  Again  I  was  a  traitor  to  the 
promise  I  had  given  his  father.  Joe  must 
have  enjoyed  the  party,  for  he  overstayed  his 
leave  and  was  roundly  scolded  when  he  got 
back.  He  was  as  penitent  as  an  heir  to 
millions  might  be  expected  to  be  and  he  made 
a  lot  of  promises  that  I  think  he  sincerely 
intended  to  keep. 

But  the  sting  of  reprimand  is  soon  forgotten, 
and  promises  and  good  resolutions  are  easily 
broken  when  a  pretty  girl  beckons  from  afar. 
And  that  is  what  happened  to  Joe  the  follow- 
ing week.  Despite  all  I  had  told  him  about 
the  instructions  his  father  had  given  me  and 
his  own  promise  not  again  to  ask  me  to  disobey 
them,  he  came  with  another  pleading  request 
to  get  away  for  a  few  days  and  I  refused.  Joe 
went  without  permission  and  didn't  come 
back  for  almost  a  week.  When  he  did  come  I 
fired  him. 

The  office  gasped  with  astonishment  when 
it  got  noised  about  that  I  had  discharged 
"Prince  Joe,"  as  they  called  him,  but  Joe 
good-naturedly  treated  it  as  a  joke  and  took 
the  night  train  for   Bar  Harbor,   where  he 


The  Pulitzers  229 

fitted  out  his  yacht  and  sailed  it  in  all  of  the 
regattas  there  that  summer,  or  until  his  father 
returned  from  Europe  and  sent  him  out  to  St. 
Louis.  This  was  just  what  Joe  wanted,  for 
that  is  where  his  heart  was.  He  married  the 
girl  and  they  have  a  beautiful  home  and  babies, 
and  Joe  is  now  president  of  the  Post-Dispatch 
Publishing  Company  and  one  of  the  important 
men  of  the  town.  I  imagine  he  has  forgiven 
me  for  firing  him. 

Ralph  was  more  serious-minded.  Although 
in  such  delicate  health  in  his  early  manhood 
as  to  cause  his  parents  much  anxiety,  he  built 
up  his  strength  by  outdoor  life  and  hunting 
expeditions  in  the  western  mountains,  and 
was  in  full  vigor  of  robust  manhood  when 
called  upon  to  take  the  management  of  his 
father's  newspapers.  His  management  has 
been  along  safe  and  sane  lines,  but  few  changes 
having  been  made  in  the  splendid  organization 
that  his  father  so  intelligently  assembled. 
The  most  important  change  has  taken  place 
within  the  past  year  when  Florence  White  was 
made  general  manager,  a  title  that  is  new  in 
the    World    office.     He    had    been    financial 


230  The  Pulitzers 

manager  for  many  years  and  has  been  with  the 
Pulitzers  ever  since  he  came  from  college, 
more  than  thirty  years  ago.  He  is  the  quiet- 
est and  most  seldom  seen  man  in  the  entire 
establishment,  and  certainly  one  of  the  most 
efficient.  Another  quietly  efficient  man  is 
Don  Seitz,  business  manager  for  nearly 
twenty-five  years.  Much  of  the  prosperity  of 
the  World  is  due  to  his  untiring  energy.  I 
always  found  him  broadminded  and  liberal. 
I  have  mentioned  the  instability  of  news- 
paper employment,  but  this  condition  no 
longer  exists  in  the  World  office,  where  nearly 
every  man  who  occupies  a  responsible  position 
in  the  business,  the  editorial,  or  the  mechan- 
ical departments,  has  been  with  the  paper 
for  twenty  years  or  longer,  many  of  them 
in  the  same  positions  they  now  fill.  I  do 
not  think  this  can  be  truthfully  said  of  any 
other  American  newspaper. 


CHAPTER  XII 


NEWSPAPER    ETHICS 


The  editor  of  one  of  the  leading  magazines 
recently  wrote  to  me,  asking  that  I  write  for 
him  a  series  of  articles  on  the  rise  and  decline 
of  journalism  during  the  last  fifty  years.  The 
proposition  struck  me  as  being  so  absurd  that 
I  promptly  declined,  explaining  to  the  editor 
that  I  was  unaware  of  any  deterioration  in  our 
daily  newspapers  of  to-day  as  compared  with 
any  period  with  which  my  memory  is  as- 
sociated.    Nor  has  there  been. 

It  is  my  firm  belief  that  at  no  time  in  the 
history  of  American  journalism  have  news- 
papers been  more  enterprising,  more  reliable, 
or  more  influential.  They  are  now,  as  they 
always  have  been  and  I  hope  always  will  be, 
the  greatest  of  all  educators  of  mankind,  hon- 
est, truthful,  and  dependable.  A  dozen  years 
have  gone  by  since  the  great  editor  of  the 
New  York  World  passed  to  his  reward,  but  his 

paper  is  to-day  as  ably  edited  and  as  alert  in 

231 


232  Newspaper  Ethics 

gathering  and  presenting  news  as  during  his 
lifetime.  I  can  observe  no  signs  of  degener- 
acy in  either  the  news  or  editorial  columns. 
This  is  true  of  its  most  aggressive  rival,  the 
New  York  Times,  a  greater  newspaper  to- 
day than  at  any  time  since  it  was  founded. 
Other  great  newspapers  are  the  Philadelphia 
Ledger,  the  Chicago  Tribune,  and  scores  and 
hundreds  of  lesser  important  ones  in  various 
cities  throughout  the  country. 

A  devoted  friend,  evidently  sharing  the 
mistaken  opinion  of  the  magazine  editor  who 
asked  me  to  write  about  the  decline  of  Ameri- 
can journalism,  has  sent  me  a  book  that 
was  written  by  Upton  Sinclair.  It  is  entitled 
The  Brass  Check,  an  abusive  and  wholly 
unmerited  tirade  against  American  news- 
papers. If  half  that  he  writes  against  them 
were  true,  most  of  the  publishers  and  editors 
deserve  to  be  put  in  jail  and  kept  there. 

My  friend  who  sent  me  the  book  writes: 
"You  certainly  ought  to  know  the  truth  about 
a  good  deal  of  what  he  relates,  and  now  that 
you  are  in  a  disinterested  position  in  relation 
to  it  you  will  probably  be  ready  to  admit  many 


Newspaper  Ethics  233 

of  the  iniquities  of  the  present  system  of 
journalism." 

I  read  the  book,  a  mess  of  maliciousness, 
and  I  am  surprised  that  anyone  so  intelligent 
as  my  friend  could  be  so  prejudiced  by  what 
seems  to  me  unconvincing  mendacity. 

As  to  my  admitting  "many  of  the  iniquities 
of  the  present  system  of  journalism,"  I  can  do 
nothing  of  the  kind,  for  none  exist  or  ever  have 
existed,  as  far  as  I  ever  experienced.  In  all 
of  my  forty  years  of  active  newspaper  work, 
most  of  it  in  the  capacity  of  editor,  I  have 
personally  known  of  but  two  dishonorable 
newspaper  publishers.  One  of  these  got  his 
just  deserts  when  he  was  sentenced  to  serve 
a  long  term  of  imprisonment  in  Joliet  Peni- 
tentiary. 

During  the  entire  period  of  twenty-seven 
years  that  I  was  with  the  Pulitzers,  I  was 
never  once  asked  by  anyone  in  authority  to 
publish  an  improper  news  item,  nor  was  I  ever 
asked  to  withhold  or  suppress  or  color  a  news 
article.  Joseph  Pulitzer  was  the  last  man 
who  would  have  suggested  such  a  thing,  and 
^had  I  done  so  at  the  suggestion  of  another  I 


234  Newspaper  Ethics 

would  have  ceased  to  be  connected  with  his 
newspaper  the  instant  it  was  called  to  his 
attention. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  was  as  zealous  in  preserving 
the  integrity  of  his  newspaper  as  he  would 
have  been  in  protecting  the  good  name  of  any 
member  of  his  family.  He  was  a  stickler  for 
accuracy.  He  appreciated  the  difficulties  his 
news  writers  encountered  in  getting  absolutely 
accurate  details  of  anything  they  could  not 
personally  witness,  but  he  had  no  patience 
with  careless  reporting  or  exaggeration.  I 
have  known  him  to  handsomely  reward  the 
enterprise  of  one  of  his  reporters,  and  a  week 
later  order  his  suspension  because  of  a  gross 
exaggeration  in  estimating  the  number  of 
marchers  in  a  St.  Patrick's  Day  parade. 

He  forgave  mistakes,  but  punished  careless- 
ness. He  knew,  as  all  experienced  newspaper 
men  know,  that  inaccuracies  are  bound  to 
appear  in  the  news  accounts  that  are  written 
by  the  ablest  and  most  conscientious  men  of 
the  staff,  as  often  as  in  the  work  of  the  novice. 
The  rapidity  with  which  details  of  an  impor- 
tant news  happening  are  gathered  and  put  into^ 


Newspaper  Ethics  235 

type  in  time  to  get  into  the  next  edition  is 
partly  responsible  for  some  of  the  inaccuracies, 
but  the  greatest  difficulty  lies  in  getting  accu- 
rate statements  from  those  to  whom  a  news- 
paper reporter  must  go  for  facts. 

Let  an  accident,  a  murder,  a  robbery,  or  any 
of  the  many  happenings  of  a  great  city  take 
place,  and  the  first  reporters  to  arrive  on  the 
scene  will  frequently  encounter  a  dozen  or 
more  eyewitnesses,  all  of  them  eager  to  tell 
what  they  heard  and  saw  and  no  two  of  them 
ever  tell  the  story  alike.  All  may  mean  to  be 
truthful  and  perhaps  are  sincere  in  describing 
what  they  believe  took  place,  but  they  saw  it 
through  different  lenses  and  the  reporters  are 
confronted  with  the  difficulty  of  weeding  out 
the  facts  from  the  mass  of  conflicting  and  con- 
fusing statements.  That  is  why  the  reports 
in  different  newspapers  so  seldom  agree.  I 
have  made  repeated  tests  and  have  never  yet 
found  the  statements  of  two  persons  to  be  alike 
in  many  of  the  important  details. 

This  is  also  true  in  the  testimony  that  one 
hears  at  every  important  trial.  No  two  wit- 
nesses testify  alike,  although  they  may  intend 


236  Newspaper  Ethics 

to  be  absolutely  truthful  and  impartial. 
Reporters,  I  think,  seldom  deliberately  lie  or 
color  the  facts  for  the  purpose  of  adding 
interest  to  their  stories;  "faking"  is  what 
lying  is  called  in  newspaper  offices.  The 
career  of  a  "faker"  is  short  lived.  His  offense 
is  sure  to  be  soon  detected  and  it  is  never 
condoned.  I  don't  think  there  is  a  city  editor 
who  wouldn't  discharge  a  news  "faker"  with- 
out compunction.  In  my  long  career  as  a  city 
editor  I  fired  more  men  for  inaccurate  report- 
ing than  for  all  other  causes. 

I  have  mentioned  how  zealous  Mr.  Pulitzer 
was  in  preserving  the  integrity  of  his  news- 
paper and  there  comes  to  my  mind  an  incident 
that  attracted  the  attention  of  every  member 
of  the  staff  at  the  time  it  happened.  A  new 
managing  editor  had  come  to  the  paper  from 
the  West,  at  a  time  when  the  World  was  expos- 
ing one  of  the  most  corrupt  political  bosses 
that  ever  flaunted  himself  in  Tammany  Hall, 
and  one  night  someone  connected  with  the 
World  was  astounded  at  seeing  the  new  editor 
occupying  a  box  at  one  of  the  theaters  with  the 
Tammany  boss.    Others  in  the  audience  were 


Newspaper  Ethics  237 

equally  astounded.  Mr.  Pulitzer  heard  of  it 
and  sent  for  his  indiscreet  editor  and  what  he 
said  to  him  rang  in  his  ears  as  long  as  he  lived. 
Soon  after  that  the  editor  was  shunted  into 
a  less  conspicuous  position  and  he  never 
regained  the  confidence  of  his  employer. 

Another  editor,  who  had  a  personal  griev- 
ance against  William  R.  Hearst,  smuggled 
into  the  editorial  columns  a  bitter  attack  on 
the  proprietor  of  the  Journal  and  it  cost  him 
his  job,  for  although  Mr.  Pulitzer  was  in  no 
way  friendly  to  Mr.  Hearst,  he  would  not 
suffer  his  newspaper  to  be  degraded  by  per- 
sonal animosity  on  the  part  of  one  of  his  staff. 

One  often  hears  it  said  that  the  news 
columns  of  a  newspaper  are  influenced  by  the 
business  office  and  that  news  is  frequently 
colored  or  suppressed  in  the  interest  of  some 
important  advertiser.  I  suppose  this  may  be 
more  or  less  true  in  the  case  of  some  of  the 
small  newspapers  that  are  struggling  for  their 
daily  existence,  but  it  is  positively  untrue  in 
the  offices  of  the  larger  dailies.  I  was  city 
editor  for  the  Evening  World  for  more  than 
twenty  years  and  for  a  period  city  editor  of  the 


238  Newspaper  Ethics 

Morning  World,  and  in  all  that  time  no  one  in 
the  business  office  with  authority  ever  inter- 
fered, even  by  suggestion,  with  the  handling 
of  the  news.  The  only  approach  to  it  came 
from  a  solicitor  of  advertising,  who  had  no 
more  influence  or  authority  in  the  editorial 
rooms  than  the  smallest  office  boy.  I  have 
many  times  had  big  advertisers  come  to  me, 
frequently  accompanied  by  their  lawyer  or 
some  man  of  supposedly  great  influence,  but 
what  they  said  or  sometimes  threatened  was 
wasted  eff^ort.  If  I  had  permitted  them  to 
intimidate  me  into  suppressing  a  legitimate 
news  article  and  Mr.  Pulitzer  found  it  out,  I 
would  probably  have  been  sent  away  to  hunt 
for  a  new  job. 

The  greatest  pressure  that  was  ever  brought 
to  bear  on  me  in  the  way  of  suppressing  news 
was  in  connection  with  the  exposure  of  life 
insurance  methods.  It  was  I  who  published 
the  first  article  that  opened  the  way  to  expos- 
ing the  greatest  scandal  in  financial  circles  that 
New  York  has  ever  known.  It  came  about  in 
this  way:  I  was  living  at  the  Hotel  Majestic 
and  had  a  party  of  friends  for  dinner  one  even- 


Newspaper  Ethics  239 

ing.  As  we  were  about  to  go  down  my  wife 
answered  the  house  telephone  and  reported  to 
me  that  Gage  Tarbell  was  calHng  and  desired 
to  talk  with  me  on  a  matter  of  urgent  impor- 
tance. My  wife  consented  to  take  our  friends 
to  dinner  without  me  and  I  went  with  Tarbell 
into  the  library,  where  we  could  converse 
without  interruption.  He  appeared  to  be 
greatly  perturbed.  Before  stating  his  object 
in  calling  on  me  he  opened  his  watch  and 
showed  me  inside  the  case  the  photograph  of 
a  beautiful  woman. 

"That  is  my  mother,'*  he  said,  "and  before 
I  go  any  further  with  what  I  have  to  say,  I 
want  to  tell  you  of  a  pledge  I  made  to  her 
before  I  left  home  to  make  my  own  way  in  the 
world.  I  promised  her  that  no  matter  what 
befell  me  I  would  never  in  all  my  life  do  a 
dishonorable  act  and  I  want  you  to  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never  broken 
that  pledge." 

I  listened  to  him  with  ill-concealed  astonish- 
ment wondering  what  could  have  happened  to 
cause  him  to  approach  me  in  such  an  inti- 
mately confidential  way.     I  had  known  him  in 


^o  Newspaper  Ethics 

a  casual  way  for  several  years,  during  the  pe- 
riod that  he  had  lived  in  the  same  hotel  and  we 
had  occasionally  played  billiards  together  and 
had  chatted  socially  in  the  foyer  on  a  number 
of  occasions,  but  that  was  the  extent  of  our 
relations,  except  that  we  were  both  admirers 
of  fine  horses  and  frequently  drove  our  teams 
side  by  side  on  the  driveways  of  Central  Park. 
With  the  brief  preliminary  about  the  promise 
he  had  made  to  his  mother  long  years  before, 
he  went  squarely  into  the  subject  he  had  come 
to  talk  with  me  about. 

It  will  be  recalled  that  Tarbell  was,  at  the 
time  of  which  I  write,  Vice-President  of  the 
Equitable,  reputed  to  be  the  richest  and  most 
prosperous  of  any  of  the  large  life  insurance 
corporations,  with  investments  running  high 
into  the  hundreds  of  millions.  Tarbell  had 
control  of  all  the  agencies.  I  knew  that  he 
must  be  a  man  of  importance  and  that  his 
income  must  be  very  large  to  sustain  the 
extravagant  style  in  which  he  had  lived  ever 
since  our  acquaintance  began. 

He  began  by  briefly  sketching  his  career  and 
telling  me  of  the  magnitude  of  the  business  his 


Newspaper  Ethics  241 

company  had  been  doing  for  many  years. 
Then  he  plumped  something  at  me  that 
opened  my  eyes  with  astonishment.  There 
had  been  a  row  that  day  in  the  office  between 
Hyde,  who  controlled  the  stock  by  right  of 
inheritance  from  his  father,  and  Alexander, 
the  President  of  the  Equitable.  In  a  general 
way  Tarbell  told  me  what  the  row  was  about 
and  what  it  was  certain  to  lead  to  when  once 
it  got  into  the  courts. 

I  was  amazed  that  such  rascality  could  have 
gone  on  unchecked  for  so  many  years.  In  all 
my  experience  I  had  never  heard  of  such 
crookedness  among  men  of  high  financial 
standing  and  supposed  integrity.  Hyde  I 
knew  only  from  having  seen  him  many  times 
driving  six  horses  to  a  stage  coach  through  the 
park,  and  when  he  exhibited  his  prizes  at  the 
annual  Horse  Show  in  Madison  Square  Gar- 
den. Alexander  I  had  met  several  times  and 
once  had  been  his  guest  at  dinner  at  the 
University  Club.  I  had  thought  then  that 
he  was  the  handsomest  and  the  most  polished 
gentleman  I  ever  came  in  contact  with.     And 

could  this  man  be  the  crook  that  Tarbell 
16 


242  Newspaper  Ethics 

was  picturing  to  my  mind?  It  seemed 
unbelievable. 

I  arranged  with  Tarbell  that  he  was  to  be 
at  the  old  Astor  House  at  noon  the  following 
day,  prepared  to  present  proofs  of  what  he  had 
told  me  to  a  newspaper  man  I  would  assign  to 
meet  him.  I  sent  William  Spear,  one  of  the 
hardest  headed  and  most  persistent  investi- 
gators on  the  staff  of  the  World,  and  Tarbell 
made  good  his  promise.  Part  of  what  he  told 
Spear  appeared  in  our  paper  the  following 
day  and  it  caused  the  greatest  sensation  that 
had  been  known  in  financial  circles  for  many 
years. 

Other  papers  took  it  up  and  the  World 
forced  the  Governor,  in  the  face  of  many 
obstacles,  to  begin  a  public  investigation  of  all 
the  insurance  companies.  The  history  of  that 
scandal  is  so  recent  that  I  shall  not  go  further 
into  details,  for  all  newspaper  readers  know 
how  the  reputations  of  great  business  men 
were  blasted,  some  of  them  dying  of  the  shame 
of  it,  and  they  know  also  how  the  investigation 
brought  Hughes  into  the  limelight  and  carried 
him  straight  up  to  the  Executive  Mansion  at 


Newspaper  Ethics  243 

Albany  and  later  on  to  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  United  States. 

I  remember  Tarbell  saying  to  me  that  night 
at  the  Majestic:  "I  will  furnish  your  paper 
with  full  particulars  of  the  greatest  business 
scandal  this  country  has  ever  known  and  what 
I  give  you  will  tear  hitherto  unblemished 
reputations  to  tatters  and  smear  many  men 
with  the  mud  of  their  own  iniquity.  But 
mark  what  I  now  tell  you :  When  the  exposure 
that  is  bound  to  come  is  sifted  to  the  bottom, 
Gage  Tarbell  is  going  to  come  out  of  it  with 
character  unstained  and  with  a  clean  bill  of 
health." 

Soon  after  the  investigation  was  well  under 
way  I  went  abroad  and  was  with  Mr.  Pulitzer 
in  London  when  the  report  of  the  investigating 
commission  was  made  public.  I  read  it  aloud, 
every  word  of  it,  to  my  blind  employer  and  I 
never  knew  him  to  be  more  deeply  interested. 
I  had  told  him  of  Tarbell's  visit  to  me  and  how 
the  exposure  was  begun  and  of  what  Tarbell 
had  predicted  would  be  the  outcome  so  far  as 
he  was  personally  concerned.  Mr.  Pulitzer 
seemed  pleased  when  I  read  to  him  that  the 


244  Newspaper  Ethics 

report  of  the  commission  completely  exoner- 
ated Tarbell. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  World  building  one 
afternoon,  I  was  stopped  by  one  of  the  report- 
ers and  introduced  to  the  man  he  was  talking 
with,  Rosenthal,  a  gambler.  I  had  never 
seen  the  fellow  before  but  had  read  in  the 
World  a  few  days  previous  an  article  he  had 
furnished  that  had  caused  a  commotion  in 
police  circles  and  among  the  gamblers  of  the 
Tenderloin.  I  listened  for  awhile  to  what 
Rosenthal  was  saying  to  the  reporter  about 
threats  that  were  being  made  to  put  him  out  of 
the  way,  and  then  hurried  away  to  keep  an 
appointment  I  had  in  another  part  of  the  city. 

I  got  to  my  desk  early  the  next  morning,  as 
details  of  the  murder  of  Rosenthal  in  front  of 
the  Metropole  Hotel  were  being  telephoned 
into  the  office  by  our  reporters  who  were 
covering  the  story.  The  man  I  had  talked 
with  late  the  previous  afternoon  was  lying 
dead  in  the  morgue  and  a  score  of  detectives 
and  several  assistant  district  attorneys  were 
chasing  about  the  Tenderloin  in  search  of  the 
gunmen  who  had  lured  him  to  the  street  and 


Newspaper  Ethics  245 

punctured  him  with  bullets  from  their  auto- 
matics. Something  that  Rosenthal  had  said 
to  me  the  afternoon  before  prompted  me  to 
ask  Max  Fischel,  one  of  our  reporters  who  was 
telephoning  details  of  the  murder,  if  he  had 
seen  Lieutenant  Becker  and  what  he  had  to 
say  about  the  crime. 

"Becker  is  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  West 
Forty-seventh  Street  police  station,  across 
from  where  I  am  now  telephoning,"  reported 
Fischel.  "I  haven't  been  able  to  get  much 
out  of  him." 

"Ask  him  to  call  me  on  the  telephone,"  I 
directed. 

Becker  called  me  up  a  few  minutes  later, 
protested  that  he  knew  nothing  about  the 
murder  or  who  had  done  it,  and  angrily  hung 
up  the  receiver  when  I  started  to  question  him. 
The  next  day  I  went  up  to  Police  Head- 
quarters and  asked  Commissioner  Waldo  why 
he  permitted  Becker  to  remain  on  duty  when 
everyone  was  connecting  his  name  with  the 
killing  of  Rosenthal. 

Waldo  defended  Becker  to  me  and  declared 
that  he  would  not  arrest  him  when  there  was 


246  Newspaper  Ethics 

no  evidence  against  him  except  the  unsub- 
stantiated statements  of  gamblers  and  their 
disreputable  associates  in  the  Tenderloin.  He 
told  me,  also,  that  he  had  been  down  to  City 
Hall  and  had  talked  the  matter  over  with 
Mayor  Gaynor  and  the  Mayor  had  given 
positive  orders  that  Becker  was  not  to  be 
arrested  or  even  suspended  from  duty  until 
sufficient  evidence,  not  yet  uncovered,  should 
be  developed  to  justify  an  arrest. 

Waldo  declared  his  belief  that  Becker  was 
being  "framed  up"  by  friends  of  the  murdered 
gambler  and  he  told  me  that  Mayor  Gaynor 
was  firmly  convinced  of  his  innocence.  I  do 
not  believe  that  Waldo  was  ever  convinced 
that  Becker  was  responsible  for  the  killing, 
even  after  the  policeman  was  convicted  and 
put  to  death  in  the  electric  chair.  He  often 
told  me  that  he  believed  that  Becker  was  a 
victim  of  circumstances  and  the  lying  testi- 
mony of  those  who  perjured  themselves  to 
save  their  own  slimy  hides. 

The  night  that  Gyp  the  Blood  and  his 
gangster  pals  were  captured  in  a  Brooklyn  flat, 
Deputy  Commissioner  Dougherty,  who  per- 


Newspaper  Ethics  247 

sonally  led  the  raid  that  resulted  in  their 
arrests,  called  me  in  my  apartments  at  the 
Plaza  Hotel  to  tell  me  of  the  capture  he  had 
made.  He  was  telephoning  from  the  flat  in 
which  they  had  been  hiding  and  he  offered  to 
hold  them  there  until  I  could  run  over  to 
Brooklyn  and  join  him.  It  was  a  tempting 
invitation,  but  I  had  to  decline  it  to  keep  a 
theater  engagement  I  was  not  privileged  to 
break. 

After  Becker  and  the  gunmen  had  been 
executed  and  were  in  their  graves,  District 
Attorney  Whitman  and  his  wife  were  dining 
with  me  one  evening  at  the  Plaza  and  we  got  to 
talking  about  the  Rosenthal  case.  He  had 
been  elected  Governor  of  New  York  only  a 
week  before  our  dinner  party.  I  told  him  how 
Waldo  felt  about  Becker,  and  he  related,  with 
circumstantial  detail,  a  story  about  the  two 
men  that  made  me  gasp  with  astonishment. 

It  was  the  story  of  an  up-town  raid,  years 
before  the  Rosenthal  affair,  and  if  true,  ex- 
plained in  a  way  the  hold  Becker  had  on 
Waldo  at  the  time  all  New  York  was  clamor- 
ing for  Becker's  arrest. 


248  Newspaper  Ethics 

I  took  pains  to  carefully  investigate  the  next 
day  the  story  told  me  by  Whitman  and  I 
learned  that  Becker  was  not  concerned  in  the 
raid  Whitman  told  about  and  that  at  the  time 
of  the  occurrence  Waldo  was  serving  as  an 
officer  in  the  Philippines.  A  week  later  Whit- 
man and  I  and  our  wives  went  together  to 
White  Sulphur  Springs  in  West  Virginia  to 
spend  Thanksgiving  week  and  I  told  him  the 
result  of  my  investigation. 

"I  told  you  the  story  exactly  as  it  was 
related  to  me,'*  was  his  only  defense. 

"But  you  didn't  tell  it  to  me  as  a  bit  of 
hearsay  gossip,"  I  retorted.  "You  told  it  as  a 
statement  of  fact,  and  coming  from  the  lips  of 
the  District  Attorney  who  prosecuted  Becker 
and  the  gunmen  and  who  is  soon  to  be 
Governor  of  the  State,  I  had  every  reason  to 
believe  it  was  true.  I  am  glad  I  took  the 
precaution  to  investigate  what  you  told  me 
and  I  suppose  that  you  will  be  gratified  to 
learn  that  it  is  untrue  in  every  particular,  so 
that  you  will  not  again  repeat  as  a  fact  what 
is  really  only  a  malicious,  lying  scandal." 

Governor  Whitman  changed  the  subject. 


Newspaper  Ethics  249 

On  that  trip  we  had  a  long  and  earnest  dis- 
cussion about  prohibition  and,  in  the  Hght  of 
later  developments,  I  am  impressed  by  the 
far-sightedness  of  my  companion,  or  it  may 
have  been  only  a  lucky  guess,  when  he  pre- 
dicted that  the  day  was  not  far  off  when 
Congress  would  declare  for  nation-wide  pro- 
hibition. 

I  couldn't  conceive  of  such  a  thing  coming 
to  pass  in  my  lifetime  and  said  so. 

"There  will  come  general  prohibition  in  all 
of  the  States  before  my  term  of  office  as 
Governor  has  expired,"  was  his  prophetic 
reply. 

At  luncheon,  the  following  day,  after  drink- 
ing his  wine.  Whitman  raised  his  empty  glass 
and  looking  me  squarely  in  the  face,  exclaimed 
with  considerable  feeling:  "I  assume  that  you, 
who  never  indulge  in  intoxicants,  think  that 
I  drink  more  than  I  should.  Then  listen  to 
what  I  am  now  saying:  On  the  first  day  of 
January  next  I  shall  be  Governor  of  the  State 
of  New  York,  and  from  that  day  on  I  become 
a  prohibitionist  in  fact  as  well  as  theory." 

Governor  Whitman  prophesied  accurately 


250  Newspaper  Ethics 

in  regard  to  what  Congress  would  do;  but  he 
missed  fire  in  his  prophecy  about  himself. 

One  night  I  was  dining  with  Mayor  Mitchel. 
He  was  smarting  under  the  sting  of  what  had 
appeared  in  some  of  the  newspapers  in  con- 
nection with  his  transactions  with  Senator 
Reynolds  in  the  purchase  by  the  city  of 
Dreamland  at  Coney  Island  and  a  tract  of  land 
at  Rockaway.     He  was  plainly  upset. 

"I  tell  you,  Chapin,  that  the  worst  iniquity 
in  this  city  to-day  is  yellow  journalism,"  he 
exclaimed,  bringing  his  clenched  fist  down  on 
the  table  with  a  thump  that  set  the  glassware 
to  jigging. 

I  happened  to  know  that  there  was  some 
justification  for  what  had  appeared  about 
the  Mayor  and  Reynolds.  It  was  the  only 
smudge  on  his  administration  of  city  affairs, 
and  I  told  him  so.  I  told  him,  also,  that  it 
had  become  the  fashion  for  men  who  didn't 
like  what  newspapers  printed  about  them  to 
call  the  paper  *' yellow,"  but  that  I  could  never 
make  up  my  mind  what  "yellow,"  as  applied 
to  newspapers,  meant.  If  it  meant  that  the 
newspaper    printed    lies    and    manufactured 


Newspaper  Ethics  251 

sensations  that  were  unfounded,  I  knew  of 
no  such  conditions  that  existed  in  any  of  the 
New  York  newspapers.  I  told  him  that  I 
beHeved  that  all  of  them  meant  to  be  fair  and 
truthful  at  all  times  and  that  no  paper  that 
was  run  with  any  different  policy  could  hold 
its  circulation. 

Then  I  told  him  my  ideas  of  what  is  meant 
by  "yellow  journalism"  and  went  back  to 
forty  years  or  more  of  my  own  experience.  I 
told  him  of  the  Chicago  Times^  which  was  run 
on  the  policy  of  "raise  hell  and  sell  news- 
papers," and  mentioned  that  headline  which 
shocked  readers  of  the  newspaper — "Jerked 
to  Jesus,"  over  the  execution  of  a  murderer 
who  became  a  religious  enthusiast  just  before 
the  hangman  broke  his  neck. 

I  told  the  Mayor  something  more  about 
the  Chicago  Times  that  appeared  to  interest 
him.  It  was  the  story  of  the  burning  of  Hoo- 
ley*s  Theater.  It  thrilled  Chicago  one  morn- 
ing and  then  caused  almost  a  riot  when  it 
turned  out  that  the  story  was  a  vicious  fake. 

Frank  Wilkie,  father  of  a  recent  Chief  of  the 
United  States  Secret  Service,  was  one  of  the 


252  Newspaper  Ethics 

most  brilliant  writers  in  Chicago.  He  was  for 
many  years  on  the  staff  of  the  Times.  One 
night  he  went  to  the  box-office  of  Hooley's 
Theater  and  was  told  that  the  seats  were  all 
sold.  He  took  pains  to  ascertain  that  the 
statement  was  untrue  and  that  it  was  another 
way  of  denying  him  free  tickets. 

Wilkie  went  to  his  office  and  wrote  five  or 
six  columns  of  the  most  graphic  description 
of  a  fire  that  I  have  ever  read.  Hooley's 
Theater  had  burned  during  a  night  perform- 
ance and  many  had  perished  in  the  flames 
because  there  were  not  enough  exits.  A  list 
of  those  who  were  dead  or  horribly  burned 
contained  the  names  of  many  of  the  most 
prominent  men  and  women  in  the  city.  All 
Chicago  who  read  the  Times  that  morning 
was  horrified  at  the  appalling  disaster  until 
it  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  final  column 
where,  in  very  small  type,  was  a  line  in  a 
bracket : 

"(This  is  what  may  happen)." 

Then  Chicago  grew  angry  and  threatened  to 
tear  the  Times  office  apart  and  mob  its  editor. 
Old  Wilbur  F.  Storey  sat  in  his  sanctum  and 


Newspaper  Ethics  253 

chuckled.  He  had  "raised  hell  and  sold 
newspapers." 

That  is  what  I  call  "yellow  journalism," 
although  the  Times  defended  the  outrage  by 
declaring  that  the  theater  was  notoriously 
unsafe  and  a  menace  to  the  lives  of  all  who 
patronized  it.  Wretched  and  inexcusable  fake 
though  it  was,  prompted  by  no  other  motive 
than  to  "get  even"  for  not  receiving  free 
tickets  of  admission,  the  article  resulted  in 
awakening  the  authorities  to  the  fact  that  the 
theater  really  was  unsafe  and  "Uncle  Dick" 
Hooley  had  to  close  and  make  extensive 
alterations. 

What  a  pity  that  New  York  was  so  ungrate- 
ful to  Mitchel.  He  was  by  far  the  best  Mayor 
the  city  ever  had  in  my  time.  He  had  high 
ideals  and  purposes  and  worked  with  untiring 
zeal  for  the  betterment  of  New  York  and  her 
people.  I  know  of  no  man,  either  in  political 
or  civil  life,  who  worked  so  hard  as  he  did 
during  his  term  of  office. 

I  called  on  Mayor  Mitchel  in  City  Hall  one 
day  and  asked  him  to  appoint  Magistrate 
Herbert  to  a  vacancy  on  the  bench  of  Special 


254  Newspaper  Ethics 

Sessions  Court.  There  were  seventeen  candi- 
dates. Frank  Polk,  then  Corporation  Coun- 
sel and  later  Assistant  Secretary  of  State,  came 
into  the  Mayor^s  private  office  just  after  I  had 
stated  the  object  of  my  visit. 

"Come  on  in,  Frank,"  said  the  Mayor. 
"Chapin  is  asking  me  to  promote  Herbert  to 
Judge  of  Special  Sessions.  What  do  you  think 
about  it?" 

"Herbert  is  a  fine  man,"  replied  Polk,  "but 
I  have  another  candidate  and  therefore  am 
prejudiced.  However,  if  Chapin  is  boosting 
Herbert  I  imagine  that  my  candidate  and  all 
the  others  will  have  to  wait,  for  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  very  well  refuse." 

"I  have  no  intention  of  refusing,"  said  the 
Mayor.  "I  have  asked  many  favors  of 
Chapin  and  this  is  the  first  he  has  ever 
asked  of  me.  Is  Herbert  a  Catholic?"  The 
Mayor  addressed  his  question  to  me. 

"I  assume  that  he  is,  but  don't  know,"  I 
replied. 

"Is  he  a  Democrat?" 

"I  don't  know  that,  either.  I  have  never 
asked  him  what  his  religion  or  his  politics  are. 


Newspaper  Ethics  255 

I  only  know  that  he  is  decent  and  I  think  he 
is  deserving  of  the  promotion  and  will  make  a 
good  judge." 

Herbert  telephoned  to  me  a  few  evenings 
later  that  he  had  been  summoned  to  the  City 
Hall  and  that  he  had  met  the  Mayor  for  the 
first  time  and  had  received  his  appointment. 
He  is  still  on  the  bench. 

It  was  Herbert  who  introduced  me  to  Sing 
Sing.  Some  years  before  any  thought  came 
to  me  that  I  should  some  day  call  it  "home," 
Herbert  invited  me  to  visit  the  famous  old 
bastile  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  A  former 
court  officer  of  his,  John  Kennedy,  was  then 
warden  of  Sing  Sing.  Herbert  sent  word  to 
him  that  we  were  coming  and  the  warden  met 
us  at  the  railway  station  with  his  official  car- 
riage. It  was  so  different  when  I  came  again 
that  the  event  is  rooted  deep  in  my  memory. 

We  had  dinner  in  the  warden's  residence  and 
it  was  then  that  I  first  met  Father  Cashin, 
the  prison  chaplain,  with  whom  I  was  destined 
to  later  in  life  become  so  intimately  associated. 
I  recall  how  uneasy  I  felt  when  the  warden 
informed  us  that  the  nice  looking  chap  who 


256  Newspaper  Ethics 

waited  on  table  and  passed  the  food  to  me  so 
politely  was  a  convict,  serving  a  life  sentence 
for  murder.  It  gave  one  a  creepy  sensation 
among  the  nerves  of  his  spinal  column. 

After  dinner  we  looked  through  the  prison, 
guided  by  old  "P.  K."  Connaughton.  I 
recall  the  horror  I  felt  when  I  saw  the  stone 
holes  where  the  prisoners  were  confined  when 
they  were  not  at  work.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  human  beings  could  live  in  such  dank  and 
smelly  cells  and  not  go  mad  or  waste  away 
with  disease.  I  remember  saying  to  Judge 
Herbert  that  if  all  of  the  judges  in  the  Criminal 
Courts  of  New  York  would  come  up  and 
inspect  the  cells  they  would  have  little  desire 
to  send  men  here,  save  in  extreme  cases.  He 
agreed  with  me. 

Yet,  for  a  year  and  a  half  I  have  slept  every 
night  in  one  of  these  cells  and  have  slept  as 
soundly  as  ever  I  did  in  the  Plaza  Hotel,  which 
proves  the  old  saying  that  "one  can  get  used 
to  hanging  in  time." 

One  day  I  went  to  the  French  Line  pier  to 
say  bon  voyage  to  some  friends  who  were  sailing 
on  La  Bourgoyney  then  one  of  the  most  mag- 


Newspaper  Ethics  257 

nificent  of  ocean  steamships.  I  saw  her  draw 
away  from  the  pier,  her  decks  ahve  with  happy 
voyagers,  band  playing,  flags  fluttering,  pas- 
sengers waving  farewells  to  loved  ones  left 
behind.  Aboard  the  ship  I  had  picked  up  a 
printed  passenger  list.  I  thrust  it  into  a 
pocket  and  started  to  return  to  the  World 
office. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  pier,  I  encountered 
Judge  Dillon,  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in  New 
York.  He  was  for  many  years  attorney  for 
Jay  Gould  and  for  Russell  Sage.  It  was  in  the 
home  of  the  latter  that  I  first  met  him.  I 
walked  with  him  to  his  carriage.  He  told  me 
that  he  had  come  down  to  see  his  wife  and 
youngest  daughter  off  for  Europe.  I  imagined 
that  he  appeared  troubled  and  anxious  as  if 
he  had  a  premonition  of  impending  peril. 
That  impression  would  probably  not  have 
lingered  in  my  memory  all  these  intervening 
years  if  La  Bourgoyne  had  sailed  safely  to  the 
end  of  her  voyage. 

Two  days  later  a  telegram  was  brought  to 
me  at  my  desk  in  the  Evening  World  office.  It 
was  a  brief  message  from  our  correspondent  at 
17 


258  Newspaper  Ethics 

Halifax,  telling  of  a  terrible  tragedy  at  sea. 
La  Bourgoyne  had  been  run  into  by  a  sailing 
vessel  in  a  smother  of  fog  and  had  gone  down, 
drowning  many  of  her  crew  and  nearly  all  of 
her  first  cabin  passengers. 

Our  correspondent  had  been  standing  on 
the  dock  at  Halifax  and  had  sighted  a  vessel 
sailing  into  the  harbor  with  colors  at  half  mast. 
He  sprang  aboard  of  a  tug  and  went  out  to  her. 
The  flag  at  half  mast  was  quickly  explained. 
The  vessel  had  sunk  La  Bourgoyne  and  was 
bringing  in  the  few  survivors  that  had  been 
rescued. 

The  correspondent  didn't  wait  for  details, 
but  hurried  his  tug  back  to  land  and  ran  for  a 
telegraph  office.  In  ten  minutes  his  message 
of  disaster  and  death  was  before  me.  I  rushed 
it  to  the  composing  room  to  be  put  into  type 
and  telephoned  the  mechanical  forces  to  get 
ready  for  an  important  "extra."  I  wrote  a 
headline  and  directed  that  it  be  set  in  the  larg- 
est type  we  had.  There  instantly  flashed 
through  my  mind  the  passenger  list  I  had 
brought  back  from  La  Bourgoyne  and  that  was 
rushed  up  to  the  typesetters. 


Newspaper  Ethics  259 

In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  the  "extra"  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  stereotypers  and  a  few 
minutes  later  it  was  on  the  presses.  The 
presses  ran  all  day  and  far  into  the  night, 
stopping  only  that  additional  details  might  be 
added  to  the  greatest  sensation  of  the  year.  I 
was  the  first  in  this  country  except  telegraph 
operators  to  learn  of  the  disaster.  The  other 
newspapers  and  the  press  associations  got 
their  first  intimation  of  it  when  the  Evening 
World  extras  appeared  in  the  streets. 

As  the  extra  went  to  press  I  thought  of  poor 
Judge  Dillon  and  what  the  sinking  of  La 
Bourgoyne  meant  to  him.  I  got  him  on  the 
telephone  and  broke  the  news  as  gently  as  I 
could,  bidding  him  hope,  for  the  list  of  sur- 
vivors aboard  the  sailing  vessel  had  not  yet 
come  and  there  was  a  chance  that  other  ships 
would  pick  up  additional  survivors. 

I  got  no  response  after  breaking  the  news 
to  him.  The  operator  reported  that  his  re- 
ceiver was  off  the  hook  and  she  could  get  no 
reply.  I  was  too  busy  at  the  time  to  devote 
further  time  to  him,  but  I  learned  afterward 
that  he  was  so  overcome  that  he  sank  feebly 


26o  Newspaper  Ethics 

into  a  chair  and  had  to  be  helped  to  a  lounge. 
This,  I  learned  under  rather  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  the  sink- 
ing of  La  Bourgoyne  and  my  wife  and  I  were 
having  Thanksgiving  dinner  at  the  Hotel 
Savoy.  The  dining-room  was  overcrowded 
and  so  hot  that  my  wife  swooned  at  the  table 
and  would  have  fallen  from  her  chair  had  I 
not  caught  her  in  my  arms.  The  incident 
attracted  so  much  attention  from  the  other 
diners  that  I  motioned  to  two  waiters  to  aid  me 
in  carrying  her  in  her  chair  from  the  room.  A 
lady  at  a  nearby  table  followed  and  directed 
that  my  wife  be  taken  to  her  apartment.  I 
protested  and  urged  her  to  return  to  the 
dining-room,  but  she  insisted  on  having  her 
way.  She  put  my  wife  in  her  bed  and  applied 
restoratives  until  consciousness  returned  and 
while  we  waited  for  my  wife  to  recover  she 
told  me  that  she  was  in  mourning  for  her 
mother  and  sister  who  were  lost  on  La  Bour- 
goyne. She  was  a  married  daughter  of  Judge 
Dillon. 

I  related  the  incident  of  my  telephoning 


Newspaper  Ethics  261 

news  of  the  disaster  to  her  father  and  she  told 
me  what  happened  to  him  when  I  did.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  gracious  and  charming  of 
women.  We  chatted  until  long  after  midnight 
and  when  I  thought  my  wife  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  be  removed  to  our  home  in  a 
carriage,  she  wouldn't  listen  to  it,  but  insisted 
on  keeping  her  the  remainder  of  the  night. 
She  brought  her  home  the  next  day  and  came 
frequently  to  visit  us.  A  few  years  afterward 
she  died. 

Returning  to  the  topic  with  which  I  began 
this  chapter — the  alleged  degeneracy  of  Ameri- 
can newspapers — I  might  add  that  the  only 
noticeable  deterioration,  if  any  really  exists,  is 
in  the  writing  of  news  by  reporters.  Viewed 
from  a  distance  and  away  from  a  desk  in  the 
editorial  room,  my  impression  is  that  the 
standard  of  writing  is  not  so  high  as  it  was 
before  the  European  war. 

One  reason  for  this  is  that  many  of  the  best 
writers  on  the  New  York  newspapers  enlisted 
at  the  first  call  for  volunteers.  Many  of  them 
never  returned.  Some  sleep  beneath  the  stars 
that  shine  on  the  battlefields  of  France  and 


262  Newspaper  Ethics 

Russia.  Many  found  more  profitable  fields  of 
activity.  I  don't  suppose  that  they  have  be- 
come secretaries  to  wealthy  hod  carriers,  but 
I  know  that  hundreds  of  clever  men  were  lured 
into  publicity  work  for  great  industrial  con- 
cerns and  that  hundreds  have  found  lucrative 
employment  in  the  publicity  end  of  motion 
picture  production.  In  one  of  the  largest  of 
the  cinema  companies  are  more  than  a  half 
dozen  who  were  with  me  on  the  Evening  World. 
The  general  manager  was  a  thirty-dollar-a- 
week  reporter  and  the  general  sales  manager 
was  a  four-dollar  oflSce  boy  who  came  to  me  in 
knee  pants  and  grew  to  manhood  in  our  office. 
These  two  are  now  earning  fifteen  or  twenty 
thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Newspapers  have  not  kept  pace  with  other 
lines  of  business  in  the  way  of  salaries  and 
they  have  let  many  of  their  best  writers  slip 
away  from  them,  recruiting  the  ranks  with 
inexperienced  graduates  of  the  schools  of 
journalism  that  have  sprung  up  all  over  the 
country.  In  the  mechanical  branches,  all  of 
them  unionized,  publishers  have  been  com- 
pelled   to   grant    such    large    increases    that 


Newspaper  Ethics  263 

printers  and  pressmen  are  now  paid  almost  as 
much  as  editors  and  the  editors  and  reporters 
have,  in  many  instances,  found  a  better  market 
for  the  product  of  their  brains  and  energy. 

What  I  regret  most  is  that  publishers  have 
found  it  necessary  to  increase  the  selling  price 
of  their  newspapers.  I  believe  in  the  one-cent 
newspaper  that  even  the  poorest  can  afford. 
I  believe  in  the  widest  possible  circulation 
that  newspapers  can  attain.  Papers  like  the 
World  and  Times  should  have  a  daily  circu- 
lation in  excess  of  a  million  copies.  They  can- 
not get  and  hold  it  unless  they  sell  their  papers 
for  a  cent.     Past  experience  proves  this. 

Publishers  justify  the  raise  in  price  by  the 
great  increase  in  the  cost  of  raw  material 
since  the  war  began.  I  think  it  would  have 
been  wiser  to  make  the  advertisers  pay  the 
increased  cost.  In  times  like  these,  when 
many  of  the  smaller  newspapers  have  been 
compelled  to  suspend  publication  because  of 
the  shortage  of  print  paper,  advertising  rates 
are  altogether  too  cheap  when  a  candy  shop  in 
New  York  can  afford  to  purchase  two  full  pages 
of  advertising  space  in  all  of  the  leading  news- 


264  Newspaper  Ethics 

papers,  and  where  a  dozen  or  more  department 
stores  fill  a  page  or  more  each  every  day  in 
the  week. 

Make  the  advertiser  pay!  Let  the  poor 
read !  The  more  newspapers  that  are  read  the 
less  Bolsheviki  and  I.  W.  W. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GATHERING  CLOUDS 

Newspaper  men  are  notoriously  improvi- 
dent. Many  of  them  spend  their  salaries  as 
fast  as  they  earn  them.  Perhaps  if  they  were 
to  acquire  habits  of  thrift  and  were  ambitious 
to  save,  they  would  cease  to  be  newspaper 
men  and  would  go  into  fields  where  the  brains 
and  energy  and  hard  work  that  make  a  suc- 
cessful newspaper  man,  would  make  the  same 
man  rich  if  as  earnestly  applied  to  almost  any 
legitimate  business  enterprise.  In  proof  of 
this  nearly  all  of  the  good  newspaper  men  I 
knew  who  left  editorial  jobs  to  go  into  busi- 
ness, soon  climbed  to  the  top,  while  those  of 
us  who  stuck  and  grew  old  and  gray,  with  no 
taste  for  business  and  little  inclination  to  save, 
counted  ourselves  lucky  if  we  kept  out  of  debt. 

Love  of  luxury  was  my  besetting  sin.     I 

was  like  the  chap  who  declared  he  could  get 

265 


266  Gathering  Clouds 

along  without  the  necessities  if  he  could  have 
the  luxuries.  Perhaps  I  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  news  gathering  and  newspaper 
making  to  give  much  serious  thought  to  per- 
sonal matters.  I  was  not  one  of  the  saving 
kind,  too  fond  of  the  good  things  of  life  to 
hoard  my  earnings. 

There  was  a  more  cogent  reason  why  I 
didn't  feel  called  upon  to  stint  and  save;  I 
had  expectations  of  inheriting  great  wealth. 
A  relative,  whose  sincerity  I  never  had  cause 
to  question,  had  promised  to  make  me  rich, 
so  why  deny  myself  and  those  I  loved,  at  a 
time  we  could  most  enjoy  what  money  could 
buy?  Why  worry  over  what  became  of  my 
newspaper  salary  when  there  were  millions  in 
sight  that  would  some  day  be  mine.'' 

An  old  man  whose  life  was  nearly  spent 
would  soon  go  to  his  grave  and  there  would  be 
no  pocket  in  his  shroud  to  hold  the  eighty 
millions  of  his  miserly  hoarding.  Hadn't  he 
assured  me  time  and  again  that  he  intended 
leaving  me  a  large  slice  of  his  vast  fortune  and 
wouldn't  it  be  silly  for  me  to  scrimp  in  the 
present  when  the  future  would  soon  be  splen- 


Gathering  Clouds  267 

didly  provided  for?  It  never  occurred  to  me 
that  a  slip  might  come  that  would  deprive  me 
of  the  expected  inheritance. 

Already  I  had  visions  of  a  mansion  on  the 
Avenue,  a  home  in  the  country,  a  yacht,  a 
garage  full  of  cars,  a  closet  all  my  own  to  hang 
my  clothes  in  and  a  pair  of  suspenders  for  each 
pair  of  trousers. 

The  relative  whose  millions  I  expected  to 
inherit  was  Russell  Sage,  my  great  uncle. 

He  had  no  children.  My  grandmother  was 
his  only  sister  and  I  appeared  to  be  the  only 
relative  in  whom  he  was  interested.  He  liked 
to  go  about  with  me,  for  I  had  passes  to  every- 
thing that  was  worth  while  and  it  pleased 
him  that  we  could  sit  in  a  box  at  the  opera 
or  at  any  of  the  theaters  and  not  have  to  pay. 
I  took  him  to  many  of  the  big  political  gather- 
ings at  Madison  Square  Garden  and  got  him 
a  seat  on  the  platform,  and  before  the  meetings 
were  over  my  police  friends  would  lift  him  over^ 
the  heads  of  the  crowds  and  escort  him  to  the 
street  to  save  him  from  the  crush.  I  took  him 
to  prize  fights  and  watched  him  grow  as  ex- 
cited as  any  around  us. 


268  Gathering  Clouds 

Sometimes  he  would  drive  with  me  behind 
my  team  of  fast  horses,  sometimes  I  drove 
with  him  behind  his,  and  often  we  would  meet 
out  at  the  speedway  and  he  would  race  his 
team  against  mine.  I  took  him  for  his  first 
automobile  ride.  It  tickled  him  so  much  that 
I  think  he  would  have  been  tempted  to  buy  a 
car  if  my  chauffeur  hadn't  told  him  how  much 
gasoline  was  consumed  in  a  drive  of  twenty- 
five  miles.  He  always  figured  the  cost  of 
everything.  He  didn't  buy  a  car,  but  he  rode 
in  mine  whenever  I  would  take  him  and  I 
never  saw  him  so  happy  as  when  we  were 
racing  at  high  speed  over  the  fine  roads  of 
Westchester  County  and  on  Long  Island. 

What  a  lot  of  fun  that  old  man  could  have 
gotten  out  of  life  if  he  hadn't  been  so  stingy! 

Russell  Sage  was  the  most  penurious  man  I 
ever  knew.  In  all  his  life  he  never  spent  more 
than  twenty  dollars  for  a  suit  of  clothes  or  four 
dollars  for  a  pair  of  shoes.  He  boasted  to  me 
that  he  made  a  twenty-dollar  suit  last  him 
from  five  to  ten  years,  and  he  wore  them  until 
they  were  more  threadbare  and  shabby  than 
the  clothes  worn  by  the  man  who  cleaned  his 


Gathering  Clouds  269 

office.  He  was  more  than  eighty  years  old 
before  he  put  on  his  first  suit  of  underwear. 

I  have  sat  in  his  shabby  Httle  bedchamber 
when  we  were  going  out  to  an  evening  enter- 
tainment and  watched  him  sew  a  button  on  his 
coat  or  mend  a  rent  in  some  part  of  his  cloth- 
ing. I  have  seen  him  draw  off  his  shoes  and 
display  no  embarrassment  because  his  toes 
were  peeping  through  the  holes  in  his  socks.  I 
have  walked  a  mile  with  him  through  con- 
gested streets  to  return  an  empty  mineral 
water  bottle  and  collect  the  nickel  he  had 
deposited  with  the  dealer. 

He  was  a  director  and  one  of  the  largest 
stockholders  of  the  elevated  lines  and  when  we 
would  ride  uptown  together  he  would  crowd 
ahead  with  his  annual  pass  and  wait  until  I 
had  purchased  a  ticket.  Once  he  said  he  could 
get  me  by  the  ticket  chopper  on  his  pass,  but 
he  didn't  feel  it  would  be  fair  to  the  other 
stockholders. 

Russell  Sage  worshipped  God,  but  his  God 
was  Mammon.  He  loved  nothing  but  money. 
Nothing  else  in  all  this  wonderful  world 
counted. 


270  Gathering  Clouds 

"You*ll  be  a  very  rich  man  some  day/*  he 
often  said  to  me.  Once  when  he  had  repeated 
this  several  times  and  looked  as  if  he  was 
expecting  me  to  reply,  I  said  that  I  hoped  I 
would  get  more  enjoyment  out  of  riches  than 
he  did. 

"I  hope  you  will  get  as  much  pleasure  out  of 
spending  my  money  as  I  have  had  in  accumu- 
lating it,"  was  his  characteristic  response. 

I  sometimes  wonder  what  he  would  have 
thought  could  he  have  known  what  became  of 
his  millions  after  death  deprived  him  of  the 
pleasure  of  counting  them.  I  have  never 
doubted  that  Mr.  Sage  meant  what  he  so  often 
said  about  making  me  rich,  but  Mr.  Sage  had 
no  voice  in  distributing  his  fortune.  Long 
before  he  died  his  mind  went  awry  and 
trustees  were  secretly  appointed  to  look  after 
his  business  affairs,  while  he  remained  secluded 
in  his  home.  It  was  while  the  old  man  was  in 
this  pitiful  state  of  mental  decay  that  he  signed 
a  will.  It  is  common  history  how  his  will 
subsequently  was  altered  and  erasures  made 
with  chemicals. 

Some  of  my  relatives  started  to  contest  it, 


Gathering  Clouds  271 

but  they  were  persuaded  by  their  lawyers  to 
compromise  and  their  lawyers  received  fat 
fees  not  only  from  my  relatives  who  employed 
them,  but  from  those  who  had  charge  of  set- 
tling the  estate.  I  remained  passively  inert. 
One  of  the  big  lawyers  of  New  York  urged  me 
to  contest  and  offered  to  supply  the  funds  to 
carry  the  suit  to  the  highest  court,  but  I 
couldn't  without  hurting  those  who  were 
near  and  dear  to  me  and  who  needed  what  they 
got  by  the  settlement  to  make  easy  declining 
years. 

Newspaper  readers  will  remember  how  that 
crazy  Norcross  came  on  from  Boston,  walked 
into  the  office  of  Russell  Sage,  demanded  a 
million  dollars  and  when  he  didn't  get  it 
exploded  a  bomb  that  blew  his  body  into  frag- 
ments, wrecked  the  offices,  hurled  a  man 
through  a  window  into  St.  Paul's  churchyard, 
and  cruelly  maimed  for  life  the  unfortunate 
Laidlaw,  with  whom  my  uncle  shielded  him- 
self from  harm.  I  was  called  to  Mr.  Sage's 
home  that  evening,  where  I  listened  to  the 
graphic  recital  he  gave  of  what  had  happened. 

Although  he  had  passed  through  the  most 


272  Gathering  Clouds 

exciting  experience  that  ever  came  to  him,  he 
told  the  story  without  apparent  emotion  and 
with  astonishing  calmness,  not  forgetting  the 
smallest  detail.  The  amazing  part  of  it  to  me 
was  when  he  related  how  he  had  grabbed 
Laidlaw,  a  broker's  clerk,  who  chanced  to 
enter  the  office  just  as  the  robber  made  his 
demand  for  money,  and  had  forcibly  held  him 
in  front  of  himself  until  the  bomb  went  off.  A 
few  trivial  scratches  on  his  face  were  the  only 
marks  on  Mr.  Sage  to  show  how  close  he  had 
been  to  death. 

I  told  him  that  the  robber  had  been  torn 
apart  and  that  Laidlaw  had  been  so  terribly 
hurt  that  he  might  not  recover.  If  he  did  he 
would  probably  be  a  helpless  cripple  all  the 
rest  of  his  life. 

"Too  bad,  too  bad,"  was  Mr.  Sage's  only 
comment. 

I  suggested  that  someone  be  sent  to  look 
after  Laidlaw  and  provide  the  best  medical  aid 
obtainable,  but  he  made  no  reply  other  than 
an  impatient  movement  of  his  hand.  The 
suggestion  plainly  annoyed  him.  He  hated 
anything  that  touched  his  pocket. 


Gathering  Clouds  273 

Afterward,  when  he  was  sued  for  damages, 
he  denied  on  the  witness  stand  that  he  had 
used  Laidlaw  to  shield  himself  from  the 
robber,  but  I  know  from  his  own  hps  that  he 
did  do  it  and  I  have  always  believed  that  if  he 
had  given  Laidlaw  one  of  his  eighty  millions 
he  would  have  gotten  off  cheap. 

Russell  Sage  wasn't  built  that  way.  He 
would  pay  without  protest  a  fifty-thousand- 
dollar  fee  to  his  lawyer  for  fighting  a  damage 
suit,  but  not  a  dollar  would  he  voluntarily  give 
to  the  unfortunate  victim  of  his  selfish 
cowardice. 

It  was  in  the  parlor  of  his  Fifth  Avenue 
home,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  that  Mr.  Sage 
introduced  me  to  Jay  Gould,  with  whom  he 
was  associated  for  many  years  in  great  fi- 
nancial operations.  Jay  Gould  was  a  wiry 
little  man  with  bristling  beard  and  ferret-like 
eyes.  He  impressed  me  as  being  extraordi- 
narily restless  and  nervous. 

He  motioned  me  to  a  seat  beside  him  on  a 
divan  and  became  so  chatty  and  affable  that 
I  ventured  to  relate  an  incident  of  my  early 
reporting  days  in  which  he  figured.     It  was 

ts 


274  Gathering  Clouds 

while  I  was  with  the  Chicago  Tribune.  I  had 
been  sent  out  of  town  to  meet  an  incoming 
train  to  which  his  private  car  was  attached, 
my  mission  being  to  interview  him  concerning 
a  western  railroad  he  was  accused  of  having 
deliberately  wrecked.  While  we  were  seated 
in  his  car  he  began  to  grow  fidgety  over  the 
speed  the  train  was  making.  Both  of  us  were 
nearly  pitched  from  our  seats  every  time  the 
train  took  a  curve.  The  locomotive  engineer 
had  probably  been  told  who  was  behind  him 
and  was  trying  to  show  off. 

Mr.  Gould  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could  but 
became  so  frightened  that  he  interrupted  our 
interview  by  springing  to  his  feet  and  jerking 
the  bellcord.  The  train  was  stopped  and 
when  the  conductor  came  running  back  to 
find  out  what  was  the  matter,  he  got  a  lecture 
on  carelessness  that  made  his  ears  tingle. 

When  I  related  this  incident  that  Sunday 
afternoon  in  Mr.  Sage's  parlor,  a  peculiar 
expression  came  over  Mr.  Gould's  face. 

"Are  you  a  newspaper  man.?"  he  asked. 

When  I  told  him  that  I  was  with  the  Worlds 
the  newspaper  he  once  owned  and  used  to 


Gathering  Clouds  275 

boost  his  schemes,  he  hastily  arose,  abruptly 
walked  to  another  part  of  the  room  and  never 
deigned  to  notice  me  again.  Jay  Gould  didn't 
like  newspaper  men.  There  was  a  reason. 
Newspapers  blocked  some  of  his  cleverest 
schemes  by  turning  the  searchlight  of  public- 
ity on  them. 

It  was  a  treat  to  listen  to  Mr.  Sage  relate 
bits  of  anecdotes  about  the  big  men  of  finance. 
He  knew  them  all,  knew  most  of  them  more 
intimately  than  their  wives  did,  for  it  was  to 
him  they  came  in  times  of  stress  to  borrow 
money.  It  has  been  said  of  him  that  he  had 
more  ready  cash  at  his  immediate  command 
than  any  man  in  the  world.  His  loans  were 
usually  made  in  millions  and  I  am  certain 
that  he  always  exacted  two  millions  of  col- 
lateral for  every  million  of  his  cash. 

He  told  me  a  lot  of  interesting  stories  about 
his  financial  "buddies"  that  I  don't  feel 
privileged  to  repeat.  I  loved  to  hear  him 
tell  about  Vanderbilt.  Mr.  Sage  always 
called  him  "Bill."  Fancy  being  able  to 
speak  of  the  greatest  railway  magnate  in  the 
world  as  "Bill!"     That  alone  must  be  full 


276  Gathering  Clouds 

compensation  for  the  many  annoyances  of 
being  a  multimillionaire.  It  was  a  treat  to 
hear  him  tell  how  "Bill"  would  come  to  him 
and  humbly  plead  for  a  loan  of  a  few  millions 
to  tide  him  over  the  week-end.  That  is  where 
his  fun  came  in.  It  was  all  the  fun  he  ever 
got. 

The  Sages  lived  for  almost  half  a  century  in 
an  old-fashioned  brown  stone  house  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  a  few  doors  above  Forty-second 
Street,  but  after  the  aged  financier  lost  his 
mind  a  more  pretentious  house  was  bought 
farther  up  the  avenue  and  Mrs.  Sage  furnished 
it  newly  throughout.  When  it  was  ready  for 
occupancy  the  old  gentleman  was  decoyed  up 
there  and  shown  through  the  handsome  rooms, 
but  he  turned  his  nose  up  at  the  expensive 
furnishings  and  insisted  on  returning  to  the 
familiar  old  home  with  all  its  well-worn  shabbi- 
ness.  They  had  a  hard  time  coaxing  him  to 
stay.  It  wasn't  until  everything  in  the  old 
house  had  been  sent  to  an  auction  shop  and  the 
house  itself  turned  into  a  busy  hive  for  dress- 
makers and  hairdressers  that  he  was  weaned 
from  it. 


Gathering  Clouds  277 

Even  his  personal  wardrobe  went  with  the 
rest.  Riley,  his  nurse,  bundled  all  of  the  thread- 
bare garments  and  battered  hats  and  patched 
shoes  and  sent  them  to  the  Salvation  Army 
to  be  given  to  anyone  who  would  accept  them, 
ordering  for  Mr.  Sage  an  entirely  new  outfit. 
It  was  then  that  this  poor  old  millionaire,  poor 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  more  ready 
cash  than  any  other  man  in  the  world,  put  on 
the  first  suit  of  underwear  he  ever  wore  and  for 
the  first  time  in  all  his  life  was  attired  in  cloth- 
ing that  distinguished  him  from  the  most  lowly 
beggar  in  the  street. 

My  grandmother  told  me  this  story  con- 
nected with  the  birth  of  Russell  Sage :  Her 
parents  were  poor  and  lived  on  a  small  farm 
near  Oneida,  midway  between  Syracuse  and 
Utica,  in  the  central  part  of  New  York  State. 
When  my  grandmother  was  seven  years  old 
she  was  sent  out  of  the  house  one  day  and 
cautioned  not  to  return  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon. She  wandered  into  the  woods  and  came 
back  with  her  apron  filled  with  black  and  white 
"kittens"  which  she  had  found  squealing  in 
a  stump.     They  smelled   so   dreadfully   she 


278  Gathering  Clouds 

intended  to  wash  them  but  when  she  got  home 
she  was  immediately  called  to  her  mother's 
room  and  the  bedclothing  drawn  down  to  show 
to  her  astonished  eyes  a  new  baby  brother  the 
doctor  had  brought  in  her  absence.  Grand- 
mother was  so  surprised  that  she  dumped  the 
litter  of  kittens  on  the  bed  for  the  baby  to  play 
with,  but  her  horrified  mother  quickly  pulled 
the  covers  over  the  baby  and  screamed  for 
someone  to  come  and  take  away  ''those  nasty 
skunks." 

I  related  this  incident  to  Russell  Sage  eighty 
years  after  it  happened  and  he  laughed  until 
tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

Grandmother  also  told  me  that  he  didn't 
attend  the  funeral  of  either  his  father  or  his 
mother.  On  both  occasions  he  telegraphed 
that  he  was  too  busy  to  leave  New  York,  di- 
recting that  bills  for  the  funeral  expenses  be 
sent  to  him.  In  later  years,  when  the  ceme- 
tery where  his  parents  were  buried  was  aban- 
doned, he  telegraphed  instructions  to  have  the 
bodies  taken  up  and  interred  in  another  ceme- 
tery at  Oneida  and  he  also  directed  that  a  suit- 
able headstone  be  erected.     All  this  was  done. 


Gathering  Clouds  279 

but  he  didn't  so  much  as  acknowledge  receipt 
of  the  bills  that  were  repeatedly  sent  to  him. 
In  the  end  my  grandmother  had  to  pay. 

He  left  her  fifty  thousand  dollars  when  he 
died.  That  is,  a  bequest  for  that  amount  was 
one  of  the  clauses  in  his  will,  but  when  the  will 
was  filed  she  had  been  dead  for  several  years. 
He  had  evidently  forgotten,  for  she  died  before 
the  will  was  drawn.  Riley,  told  me  that  Mr. 
Sage  didn't  know  what  he  was  doing  when  he 
signed  the  will  and  hadn't  the  mentality  to 
understand  what  was  in  it. 

When  I  tumbled  from  the  dream  clouds  and 
realized  that  the  millions  I  had  expected  to  get 
had  faded  into  a  single  cipher  that  hadn't 
even  a  rim,  I  accepted  the  situation  philo- 
sophically and  I  do  not  recall  now  that  I  had 
any  feeling  of  disappointment  or  resentment. 
I  would  have  liked  the  money  for  the  comforts 
and  pleasures  it  would  have  brought,  but  when 
Mr.  Sage's  will  was  made  public  I  was  already 
in  such  easy  circumstances  that  I  had  been 
able  to  provide  for  myself  nearly  everything 
that  I  could  have  gotten  with  his  money.  I 
had  been  successful  with  speculation  in  Wall 


28o  Gathering  Clouds 

Street  and  had  salted  away  in  a  safe-deposit 
vault  securities  that  apparently  insured  me  a 
competence  as  long  as  I  might  live.  I  had  a 
yacht,  a  high-powered  touring  car,  fast  horses, 
and  was  able  to  live  in  the  finest  hotel  in  New 
York,  to  make  a  tour  of  Europe  and  to  spend 
all  of  my  vacations  as  luxuriously  as  the  rich- 
est of  the  idle  rich. 

And  I  had  the  closet  all  my  own  that  I  had 
always  coveted  and  the  pair  of  suspenders  for 
each  pair  of  trousers.  Besides  all  this  I  had  a 
good  position  and  a  good  salary  that  promised 
to  endure  as  long  as  I  should  need  them.  I 
felt  that  I  could  afford  to  smile  over  the  loss  of 
my  potential  inheritance  and  smile  I  did,  for  I 
had  already  enjoyed  a  dozen  years  of  affluence 
and  I  was  so  lucky  in  speculating  that  I  had 
an  idea  that  I  would  gain  riches  without  hav- 
ing them  handed  to  me  by  the  administrators 
of  a  dead  man's  estate. 

Then  things  began  to  happen.  In  Wall 
Street  one  may  get  rich  or  go  broke  almost 
over  night.  The  ticker  is  a  fascinating  play- 
thing when  it  is  ticking  thousands  of  dollars 
into  one's  pockets,  but  it  doesn't  always  tick 


Gathering  Clouds  281 

that  way.  Somehow  I  didn't  realize  that  my 
"luck"  was  in  following  the  tips  of  friends  who 
let  me  in  on  some  of  their  financial  deals.  I 
got  an  idea  that  I  could  do  as  well  on  my  own 
hook  and  sometimes  I  played  the  tips  of  men 
who  thought  they  knew  and  were  only  poor 
guessers.  There  came  some  hard  knocks  and 
my  securities  began  to  take  wings.  The  more 
I  plunged  the  harder  the  knocks.  Then  came 
sickness  and  a  peremptory  order  from  a  physi- 
cian to  take  my  tubercular  throat  to  California. 

I  had  some  big  deals  pending  when  this 
calamity  befell  me,  deals  that  I  was  confident 
would  turn  out  successful  and  recoup  all  of  my 
losses.  To  safeguard  my  account  if  the 
market  took  a  downward  turn  in  my  absence, 
I  withdrew  my  securities  and  deposited  them 
with  my  brokers.  I  also  took  to  them  securi- 
ties that  were  not  mine,  but  of  which  I  was 
legal  custodian.  In  doing  this  there  was  no 
thought  of  dishonesty  in  my  mind. 

In  the  hurry  of  getting  away  my  only 
thought  was  to  leave  with  my  brokers  more 
than  sufficient  collateral  to  protect  my  account 
in  any  emergency  that  might  arise  while  I  was 


282  Gathering  Clouds 

away.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  I  might  be 
wiped  out.  I  expected  to  be  gone  not  more 
than  six  weeks,  but  it  was  eight  months  before 
I  returned,  eight  months  of  hardening  outdoor 
Hfe  in  the  mountains  of  California  and  Colo- 
rado and  two  months  of  recuperative  sojourn 
in  the  lazy  atmosphere  of  the  beautiful  Hawai- 
ian Islands. 

During  that  winter  months  that  I  was  in 
California  I  kept  pretty  closely  in  touch  with 
the  trend  of  affairs  in  Wall  Street  and  the 
reports  that  came  from  my  brokers  were  all 
favorable.  In  the  effort  to  regain  health  I 
spent  money  with  the  free  hand  of  a  Pitts- 
burgh millionaire,  but  with  every  confidence 
that  my  speculations  would  pay  it  back  and 
leave  a  fat  margin  to  my  credit.  This  was 
the  situation  when  I  sailed  for  Honolulu. 

In  that  far-away,  fascinating  paradise,  it 
was  easy  to  forget  Wall  Street.  Surf  riding, 
midnight  bathing,  moonlight  rides,  shore  pic- 
nics, native  feasts  with  wonderful  dancing  and 
more  wonderful  music,  climbs  up  Mount  Tan- 
talus, motor  trips  over  the  Pali  and  around  the 
island  through  sugar  and  coffee  plantations, 


Gathering  Clouds  283 

and  cocoanut  and  pineapple  groves,  and  an  ex- 
cursion to  the  awe-inspiring  volcano,  Kilauea; 
all  these  delightful  distractions  tend  to  make 
one  unmindful  of  the  frantic  clashing  of  bulls 
and  bears  in  the  arena  of  the  New  York  Stock 
Exchange.  There  is  no  other  spot  on  all  the 
earth  that  I  have  seen  where  one  can  so  com- 
pletely forget  to  worry  and  gain  such  perfect 
rest.  It  is  called  the  paradise  of  the  Pacific. 
It  is  dreamland. 

For  three  months  I  didn't  see  a  market 
quotation.  I  knew  that  I  was  many  thou- 
sands of  dollars  ahead  of  the  game  when  my 
ship  sailed  from  San  Francisco,  and  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  a  convulsion  might  come 
that  would  turn  rich  men  into  paupers.  A 
convulsion  did  come. 

On  my  return  to  California  I  found  that  all 
of  my  supposed  profits  had  been  swept  away 
and  that  many  of  the  securities  I  had  depos- 
ited as  margins  had  gone  with  them.  I  tele- 
graphed to  my  brokers  to  find  out  how  I  stood. 
A  reassuring  reply  came  back  that  the  worst 
was  over  and  the  tendency  of  the  market  was 
now  upward.     The  statement  that  came  with 


284  Gathering  Clouds 

it  showed  a  satisfactory  balance  to  my  credit. 
I  had  been  scorched  a  bit  but  was  far  from 
consumed. 

A  San  Francisco  bank  president  took  me  to 
his  club  to  luncheon  and  introduced  me  to 
other  financiers,  all  of  whom  spoke  optimisti- 
cally in  discussing  the  future  of  the  stock 
market.  I  confided  to  the  bank  president 
what  had  happened  to  me  while  I  was  bliss- 
fully oblivious  in  Hawaii  and  he  gave  me  a  tip 
that  he  said  would  make  up  my  losses  and  a 
lot  of  money  besides.  It  was  to  buy  sugar. 
He  got  the  tip  in  "strict  confidence"  he  told 
me,  from  the  biggest  sugar  grower  in  the 
world.  That  night  I  wired  to  my  brokers  an 
order  to  buy  me  enough  sugar  to  stock  a  whole- 
sale grocer.  A  few  days  later  I  was  inflated 
with  optimism,  for  sugar  began  to  rise. 

Before  starting  for  New  York,  I  decided  to 
visit  a  celebrated  throat  specialist  and  let  him 
look  me  over.  At  the  end  of  the  week  he 
declared  that  it  would  be  hazardous  for  me  to 
return  East  before  warm  weather  set  in.  My 
throat  was  improved  but  not  cured.  He 
suggested  Arizona  or  Colorado.     A  friend  who 


Gathering  Clouds  285 

had  accompanied  me  back  from  Honolulu, 
invited  me  to  go  to  his  big  cattle  ranch,  six 
thousand  feet  above  sea  level,  on  the  western 
slope  of  the  Rockies. 

So  to  Colorado  I  went,  after  a  flying  trip  to 
the  Yosemite  and  the  Big  Trees.  On  the  way 
I  read  the  newspapers  and  sugar  looked  to  be 
the  sweetest  quotation  in  the  market  reports. 
I  was  certain  from  the  way  the  market  was 
then  going  that  my  profits  would  bring  back 
all  I  had  lost  and  more  than  pay  for  the  ex- 
penses of  my  trip.  I  decided  to  act  on  the 
advice  of  the  banker  and  not  sell  until  sugar 
reached  a  point  that  he  had  jotted  on  the 
back  of  his  visiting  card. 

I  got  to  the  ranch  of  my  friend,  after  a  hard 
ride  on  a  hard-riding  horse.  It  was  a  fifty- 
mile  climb  over  steep  mountain  roads.  There 
was  a  log  cabin  with  a  blazing  fire  to  welcome 
me.  It  was  to  be  exclusively  mine  as  long  as 
I  cared  to  stay.  The  cowboys  took  me  on 
hunting  and  fishing  trips  and  I  went  with  them 
on  the  spring  round-up  and  aided  in  driving 
thousands  of  cattle  to  be  branded.  It  was 
the  best  fun  I  ever  experienced  and  all  the 


286  Gathering  Clouds 

while  I  knew  that  the  tubercular  germs  in  my 
throat  were  being  killed  and  that  sugar  was 
going  to  bring  me  greater  riches  than  I  had 
ever  known. 

One  day  a  telegram  came  from  my  brokers. 
Sugar  had  gone  to  smash  and  so  had  I.  All 
of  my  securities  and  securities  that  were  not 
mine  had  been  lost. 

I  was  broke.  Worse  than  that,  I  was 
ruined  and  dishonored. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


TRAGEDY 


Upon  returning  to  New  York,  I  found  that 
my  imagination  hadn't  pictured  the  situation 
any  worse  than  I  found  it.  Practically  every- 
thing I  possessed  had  been  swept  away. 

When  I  went  to  California  I  had  enough  put 
away  to  have  kept  me  comfortably  the  re- 
mainder of  my  life  and  to  insure  the  future  of 
all  who  were  near  and  dear  to  me.  I  came 
back  to  find  myself  worse  than  beggared,  with 
only  my  newspaper  salary  left  and  uncertainty 
as  to  how  long  that  might  last  if  my  tangled 
financial  condition  became  known.  There  were 
many  debts  and  but  little  to  pay  them  with 
and  I  realized  that  as  soon  as  it  became  known 
that  I  was  back  in  town  there  would  be  a 
swarm  of  hungry  creditors  at  my  heels.  I  sold 
my  yacht  and  automobile  and  used  the  pro- 
ceeds in  settling  the  most  pressing  obligations. 

287 


288  Tragedy 

Worst  of  all  was  that  I  didn't  have  the 
courage  to  take  anyone  into  my  confidence.  I 
believed  that  if  it  became  known  to  others 
that  I  was  in  financial  difficulties  my  news- 
paper position  would  be  jeopardized  and  my 
creditors  would  get  me  by  the  throat  and 
prevent  me  from  doing  anything  to  rehabili- 
tate myself.  My  only  chance  of  salvation,  I 
reasoned,  was  to  hold  creditors  in  check  as 
long  as  possible  and  devote  all  of  my  energies 
to  building  up  anew. 

Isn't  it  the  perversity  of  fate  how  lucky  one 
sometimes  is  when  he  least  needs  it  and  how 
unlucky  when  he  is  face  to  face  with  disaster? 

There  had  been  many  times  in  recent  years 
when  speculative  ventures  yielded  astonishing 
result  with  almost  no  effort  or  wisdom  on  my 
part,  but  now  that  I  had  reached  the  brink  of  a 
precipice  and  knew  that  it  would  take  but  a 
little  push  to  send  me  over,  luck  forsook  me. 
No  matter  how  I  speculated  or  how  sure 
seemed  the  tips  given  to  me  by  my  friends,  I 
almost  invariably  was  on  the  wrong  side.  I 
I  bought  stocks,  they  went  down;  if  I  sold, 
they  went  up.     The  more   I   sought  to  lift 


Tragedy  289 

myself  from  the  mire,  the  more  hopelessly 
involved  I  became. 

Time  was  rapidly  nearing  when  I  could  no 
longer  keep  my  secret.  It  wasn't  debt  alone 
that  tormented  me  by  day  and  night.  I  per- 
haps could  have  survived  that  by  arranging 
with  creditors  to  pay  them  in  instalments 
from  my  newspaper  earnings,  but  I  was 
menaced  by  something  far  worse,  for  unless 
I  could  raise  a  substantial  sum  within  a  period 
of  time  that  was  swiftly  coming  to  an  end, 
there  would  be  dishonor  and  inevitable  arrest 
and  imprisonment.  It  was  this  impending 
ignominy  that  upset  my  mental  balance  and 
caused  me  to  do  the  crazy  things  that  followed. 

I  mentioned  in  the  preceding  chapter  that 
at  the  time  I  was  hurried  away  to  California 
I  sought  to  safeguard  the  account  with  my 
brokers  by  depositing  with  them  all  of  the 
securities  I  possessed,  together  with  securities 
that  were  not  mine,  but  of  which  I  was  legal 
custodian.  The  latter  represented  an  invest- 
ment of  eight  thousand  dollars  I  had  made  in 
behalf  of  a  minor  relative  as  guardian.  There 
was  no  one  to  question  or  criticize  what  I  did 

X9 


290  Tragedy 

with  these  bonds  so  long  as  I  produced  them 
in  court  when  called  upon  to  make  final  settle- 
ment of  my  trusteeship.  A  bonding  com- 
pany must  make  good  if  I  defaulted.  The 
hideous  specter  that  was  ever  before  me  was 
whether  I  would  be  able  to  replace  the  lost 
bonds. 

Several  times  I  was  almost  within  reach  of 
them,  but  each  time  the  market  turned  against 
me  and  as  often  I  would  be  brought  to  the 
verge  of  prostration  by  despair.  I  grew  dis- 
heartened over  repeated  failure.  Fear  took 
possession  of  me  and  fairly  choked  me  into 
submission. 

Then  came  days  and  nights  of  abject  terror. 
The  ring  of  my  telephone  would  often  startle 
me  so  that  my  heart  would  almost  stop  beat- 
ing and  the  mere  sight  of  a  policeman  in  the 
street  would  cause  me  to  tremble  and  hasten 
my  pace  and  perhaps  dodge  around  a  corner 
or  into  some  hallway.  Often  when  I  went  to 
the  World  office  in  the  early  morning  I  felt 
certain  that  the  policeman  near  the  entrance 
was  waiting  for  me  with  a  warrant,  and  my 
heart  would  thump  wildly  against  my  ribs 


Tragedy  291 

until  I  had  passed  him  and  was  at  my  desk. 
If  a  card  of  some  unknown  caller  was  brought 
to  me  in  the  office,  I  have  caught  myself 
asking  if  it  were  a  policeman.  I  got  so  I 
couldn't  sleep. 

All  I  could  think  of  was  what  would  surely 
happen  to  me  when  the  day  for  settlement 
came  and  I  couldn't  produce  the  bonds.  I 
couldn't  take  refuge  in  the  plea  that  I  had 
intended  no  wrong,  that  I  hadn't  the  least 
intention  of  converting  the  bonds  to  my  own 
use  or  of  speculating  with  them.  The  law,  I 
knew,  would  take  into  account  what  I  had 
actually  done,  not  what  my  intentions  were, 
so  in  reality  I  would  be  adjudged  as  guilty  as 
if  I  had  actually  stolen  the  bonds  and  squan- 
dered them  or  gambled  them  away. 

I  recall  going  to  a  movie  and  seeing  a  pic- 
ture of  a  lad  who  stole  the  pennies  from  his 
sister's  toy  savings  bank  and  spent  them  for 
candy  and  apples.  After  he  had  eaten  the 
candy  all  of  the  people  in  the  street  were 
suddenly  transformed  into  policemen  and  he 
fled  from  them  in  terror,  but  they  surrounded 
him  on  all  sides  and  beat  him  down  with  their 


292  Tragedy 

clubs.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  dream,  but  I 
likened  my  own  state  of  mind  to  that  of  the 
conscience-stricken  boy  who  robbed  his  sister's 
bank,  and  I  realized  more  than  I  ever  had 
before  that  "  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us 
all." 

The  day  I  long  had  dreaded  was  finally  at 
hand  and  I  didn't  have  the  bonds.  I  staved 
off  disaster  for  a  brief  respite  by  sending  a 
telegram  that  I  was  detained  by  business,  thus 
obtaining  an  extension.  I  knew  that  I  was 
at  the  end  of  my  rope  and  rather  than  suffer 
disgrace  and  imprisonment,  I  resolved  to  do 
the  only  thing  that  was  left  me.  It  was 
cowardly,  but  all  the  courage  I  ever  had  was 
gone  and  I  felt  myself  crushed  and    beaten. 

Suicide,  the  last  resort  of  a  moral  coward, 
I  decided  was  preferable  to  never-ending 
disgrace,  so  I  set  about  preparing  for  it.  Po- 
lice Commissioner  Waldo  was  my  friend  and 
I  telephoned  to  him  for  a  revolver.  Winnie 
Sheehan,  his  secretary,  replied  that  if  I  would 
call  at  the  commissioner's  office  there  would  be 
a  weapon  waiting  for  me.  I  got  it  within  an 
hour,  a  wicked  looking  thing,  and  found  it 


Tragedy  293 

fully  loaded.  A  police  officer  taught  me  how 
to  use  it. 

That  evening  I  destroyed  all  of  my  per- 
sonal papers  at  the  office  and  left  a  note  to  the 
effect  that  I  was  unexpectedly  called  out  of 
town  and  might  be  absent  for  several  days. 
At  midnight  I  left  for  Washington,  accom- 
panied by  my  wife,  who  knew  nothing  of  my 
difficulties  or  of  what  had  been  in  my  mind 
ever  since  our  return  from  Colorado.  I  told 
her  that  I  was  going  to  Washington  on  busi- 
ness and  she  gladly  consented  to  accompany 
me. 

On  the  train  that  night  I  tore  up  my  bank 
books  and  all  private  papers  that  were  in  my 
pockets.  I  never  would  see  New  York  again, 
for  I  was  going  away  to  die,  to  die  like  a  cow- 
ard and  leave  her  to  bear  all  the  poverty  and 
disgrace  that  was  sure  to  follow,  leave  her  in 
this  way  after  a  lifetime  of  affectionate  de- 
votion. I  cried  all  night,  sickened  with  the 
thought  of  it. 

I  caught  a  cold  in  the  sleeper  and  the  next 
day  I  was  down  with  the  grippe.  The  fever 
lasted  for  two  weeks  and  all  that  time  I  was 


294  Tragedy 

planning  self-destruction.  The  first  day  I  was 
able  to  get  about  I  went  to  the  cemetery  where 
my  mother  was  buried  and  bought  the  plot 
adjoining  hers,  arranging  at  the  same  time 
to  have  it  resodded  and  beautified  with  plants 
and  shrubs. 

Up  to  this  time  I  thought  only  of  putting 
an  end  to  myself.  My  wife,  I  supposed,  would 
be  cared  for  by  my  relatives.  I  asked  them 
about  it  and  the  reply  was  so  evasive  and 
unassuring  that  my  plans  were  completely 
upset.  The  problem  now  confronting  me  was 
what  was  to  become  of  her.  She  was  so 
fragile  and  delicate  it  was  impossible  that  she 
could  ever  do  for  herself.  She  had  no  rela- 
tives to  turn  to.  She  had  scores  of  loving 
friends  but  there  were  none  to  give  her  more 
than  temporary  shelter  when  I  abandoned  her. 

I  went  away  into  the  woods  for  a  day  and  sat 
silently  thinking.  When  I  returned  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  the  most  dreadful 
deed  that  my  distorted  brain  could  conceive. 
It  was  hideous,  but  there  was  no  other  way. 

The  following  morning  I  went  to  a  tomb- 
stone maker  and  selected  a  large  block  of 


Tragedy  295 

granite,  giving  directions  to  have  my  name 
and  my  wife's  name  carved  on  it  and  to  have 
the  stone  immediately  set  up  on  my  cemetery 
plot.  I  wanted  to  see  that  everything  was 
done  as  I  planned,  and  I  arranged  to  go  to 
the  cemetery  as  soon  as  the  tombstone  maker 
should  notify  me  that  his  work  was  com- 
pleted. 

The  interval  was  spent  in  pleasure  seeking. 
I  took  my  wife  and  my  relatives  for  long  auto- 
mobile rides  in  the  daytime  and  to  the  theaters 
in  the  evenings  and  we  celebrated  the  anniver- 
sary of  our  wedding  with  a  sumptuous  dinner 
at  the  New  Willard.  The  day  after  that 
dinner  was  to  be  our  last  day  on  earth.  Could 
anything  be  more  horrible .? 

The  morning  of  that  last  day  I  was  with 
Harry  Dunlop,  at  that  time  Washington 
correspondent  of  the  World.  I  had  gone  to 
his  office  to  write  farewell  letters.  When  I 
finished  my  task  he  asked  me  to  accompany 
him  to  the  White  House,  where  President 
Wilson  was  to  receive  all  of  the  correspondents 
in  a  body  and  talk  to  them  of  the  threatening 
situation  along  the  Mexican  border. 


296  Tragedy 

I  was  reluctant  to  go  but  finally  yielded. 
When  we  were  assembled  in  the  President's 
oflSce,  some  two  hundred  or  more,  Joe  Tum- 
ulty slipped  around  to  my  side  and  asked  me 
to  linger  after  the  others  had  been  dismissed 
and  be  presented  to  Mr.  Wilson.  I  couldn't 
get  out  of  it.  One  may  imagine  the  thoughts 
that  were  flashing  through  my  mind  while 
for  fifteen  minutes  I  stood  with  the  President 
and  chatted  with  him  about  matters  of  na- 
tional importance.  I  felt  grateful  that  he 
could  not  read  my  thoughts  or  know  that  the 
hand  he  clasped  so  cordially  would  soon  press 
the  trigger  of  the  revolver  that  was  concealed 
in  my  pocket. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  White  House,  a  secret 
service  agent  informed  me  that  Chief  Flynn 
had  telephoned  that  he  would  like  me  to  come 
to  his  office.  I  had  known  Flynn  when  he 
was  a  deputy  police  commissioner  in  New 
York  and  we  were  friends.  I  called  in  re- 
sponse to  nis  invitation  and  he  took  me  over 
to  the  New  Willard  to  luncheon.  He  didn't 
suspect  what  was  in  my  mind  any  more  than 
President  Wilson  had,  but  when  I  left  him  I 


Tragedy  297 

went  to  a  writing  table  in  the  hotel  and  wrote 
him  a  brief  note  of  explanation,  to  be  deliv- 
ered with  the  others  I  had  written,  after  my 
body  should  be  found. 

That  night  the  strangest,  most  inexplicable 
phenomenon  prevented  me  from  doing  the 
dreadful  deed  I  had  planned. 

We  all  went  to  the  theater  in  the  evening  to 
see  Ziegfeld's  Follies  and  it  was  nearly  mid- 
night when  we  retired.  My  wife  and  I  were 
occupying  the  room  that  had  been  my 
mother's  and  were  sleeping  in  the  bed  in  which 
she  died.  After  I  had  turned  out  the  lights 
I  hid  my  revolver  beneath  my  pillow  and  then 
lay  still  for  a  long  time,  trembling  with  horror 
and  dreading  the  monstrous  thing  I  had  to  do. 

At  last  the  deep  breathing  of  that  dear  little 
woman  by  my  side  told  me  that  she  was  fast 
asleep.  I  had  waited  for  that  time  to  come 
that  she  might  never  know. 

I  drew  the  revolver  from  under  the  pillow 
and  as  I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  I  saw  some- 
thing that  stopped  me.  It  was  my  dead 
mother. 

She  stood  in  the  room  but  a  few  feet  from 


298  Tragedy 

the  bed,  not  the  white-haired  old  woman, 
wasted  with  disease,  that  I  had  come  to  see  a 
few  days  before  she  died,  but  the  beautiful 
mother  I  had  idolized  when  I  was  a  child.  She 
looked  at  me  with  the  same  sweet  smile  and 
gently  shook  her  head,  just  as  she  had  done 
in  childhood  days  when  reproving  me  for 
something  I  shouldn't  have  done.  Then  she 
faded  away. 

I  have  thought  of  it  often  since  and  have 
wondered  if  it  really  was  my  mother's  spirit  I 
saw,  or  if  my  fevered  brain  imagined  it.  I 
know  it  all  seemed  very  real  at  the  time  and 
that  what  I  saw  or  imagined  I  saw  caused  me 
to  thrust  the  revolver  under  the  mattress  and 
to  take  my  sleeping  wife  in  my  arms  and  kiss 
her,  at  the  same  time  breathing  a  silent  prayer 
of  gratitude  that  she  was  still  alive. 

In  the  morning  I  received  a  telegram,  per- 
emptorily demanding  that  I  appear  in  court 
without  further  delay  and  render  a  final 
accounting  of  my  trusteeship.  It  was  accom- 
panied by  a  threat  to  forfeit  the  bond.  I 
knew  I  could  no  longer  delay  the  execution  of 
what  I  had  determined  to  do,  but  after  what 


Tragedy  299 

had  happened  the  night  before  I  resolved  not 
to  do  it  in  our  family  house. 

That  evening  my  wife  and  I  sailed  down  the 
Potomac  and  the  next  morning  we  were  at 
Old  Point  Comfort.  We  found  the  Chamber- 
lain so  crowded  that  we  were  unable  to  secure 
more  than  one  small  bedroom.  I  declined 
the  poor  accommodations  offered  me  and  the 
next  train  carried  us  on  to  Richmond. 

If  my  wife  thought  I  acted  strangely  she 
probably  attributed  it  to  the  weakened  condi- 
tion the  grippe  had  left  me  in.  I  know  that 
she  never  suspected  that  I  was  in  trouble  and 
more  than  half-crazed.  She  was  accustomed 
to  leaving  everything  to  me  and  to  believing 
that  what  I  did  was  always  the  best  thing  to 
do,  and  I  had  always  trained  myself  to  mask 
my  thoughts  and  to  present  an  untroubled 
exterior,  no  matter  how  great  my  worries 
might  be.  It  is  the  worst  thing  a  husband 
can  do  and  brutally  unfair  to  the  wife,  but  I 
had  always  gone  on  the  principle  that  the 
husband  should  bear  all  the  burdens  and  that 
he  owed  it  to  his  wife  to  share  with  her  only 
his  joys  and  pleasures. 


300  Tragedy 

What  blind  idiots  some  of  us  are. 

There  was  a  delightful  suite  of  rooms  await- 
ing us  when  we  arrived  in  Richmond,  a  fitting 
place  for  the  gruesome  tragedy  that  was  so 
imminent,  and  I  resolved  that  it  should  be 
done  that  night. 

We  spent  an  enjoyable  afternoon,  or  at 
least  my  wife  did,  driving  about  the  historic 
city,  visiting  the  site  where  Libby  Prison  had 
stood  and  in  which  her  brother  had  been  a 
prisoner  of  war,  and  on  out  to  the  historic 
battlefields. 

After  dinner  I  went  alone  to  write  a  brief 
letter  of  directions  to  the  hotel  people  and  the 
coroner.  When  1  rejoined  my  wife  I  found  her 
chatting  vivaciously  with  an  old  friend  of  mine 
I  hadn't  seen  for  many  years  and  who  had 
noticed  our  names  in  the  evening  paper  and 
had  called  to  renew  a  friendship  that  was 
broken  off  long  ago.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him 
that  we  visited  until  far  into  the  night  and 
when  he  went  away  I  had  no  heart  to  go  ahead 
with  what  I  had  come  to  do. 

The  next  day  we  returned  to  Washington. 
There  I  found  another  telegram  in  reply  to 


Tragedy  301 

one  I  had  sent,  giving  me  an  extension  of  one 
week  to  make  my  appearance  in  court.  Two 
days  of  the  week  were  already  gone.  I  sug- 
gested a  visit  to  Baltimore  and  to  Baltimore 
we  went,  and  again  I  selected  a  suitable  suite 
of  rooms  that  had  no  connecting  doors.  It  was 
in  this  city  that  the  head  office  of  the  surety 
company  that  had  furnished  the  bond  for  my 
trusteeship  was  located.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  explain  to  myself  why  I  went  there. 
I  recall  seeing  the  gilt  lettering  on  the  windows 
of  the  surety  company  as  we  drove  by  on  our 
way  from  the  railway  station  to  the  hotel. 

All  the  blood  in  me  rushed  into  my  heart  as 
I  realized  that  they  must  soon  make  good  the 
bonds  I  had  lost  in  speculation.  I  wondered 
if  they  had  yet  become  alarmed  and  if  they 
might  not  be  trying  to  trace  me.  In  a  news- 
paper I  glanced  at  while  we  were  at  dinner 
was  a  notice  that  George  Cohan  was  playing 
Broadway  Jones  at  one  of  the  theaters  that 
evening  and  my  wife  suggested  that  we  go.  I 
don't  remember  enjoying  a  play  so  much  in 
all  my  life.  The  comedy  of  it  caused  me  to 
forget  myself  completely  and  the  horror  that 


302  Tragedy 

was  suspended  above  my  head.  After  the 
play  we  went  to  supper  and  continued  to  laugh 
over  what  we  had  seen  and  heard.  Broadway 
Jones  had  been  in  almost  as  deep  trouble  as  I 
was  and  had  pulled  out  of  it. 

There  was  no  tragedy  in  our  apartment  that 
night. 

The  following  morning,  when  we  started 
for  a  walk,  two  men  with  slouched  hats  drawn 
over  their  eyes,  went  out  of  the  hotel  when  we 
did,  crossed  the  street  and  stood  on  the  corner 
for  a  minute  as  if  watching  to  see  which  direc- 
tion we  would  take.  When  we  started  up  the 
street  they  followed  on  the  opposite  side  and 
I  was  certain  that  they  kept  glancing  in  our 
direction  from  the  corner  of  their  eyes.  I 
began  to  shake  so  I  could  scarcely  walk.  They 
disappeared  in  a  building  and  came  out  as  we 
passed  and  again  followed.  I  led  my  wife 
into  a  small  park  and  we  sat  on  a  bench.  The 
men  passed  us  and  I  imagined  they  looked 
sharply  at  me,  though  neither  spoke.  They 
went  on  through  the  park  and  I  lost  sight 
of  them  as  they  disappeared  around  a  bend 
of  the  walk.     I   believed   they  were   hiding 


Tragedy  303 

behind  a  clump  of  shrubbery.  I  was  in 
agony. 

"Those  two  men  who  just  passed  us  are 
detectives  and  they  will  arrest  me/'  1  said  to 
my  wife. 

"Arrest  you!     Arrest  you  for  what?** 

I  told  her  the  whole  miserable  story,  of  my 
losses  through  speculation  and  what  had 
happened  to  the  other  bonds;  of  my  determi- 
nation to  put  an  end  to  myself.  I  said  nothing 
of  the  more  monstrous  part  of  my  plan.  She 
listened  to  me  in  silence  and  without  once 
interrupting.  I  don't  think  she  even  stirred  or 
that  the  expression  of  her  face  changed  during 
the  recital.  When  I  had  finished  she  took  my 
hand  in  hers  and  said: 

"My  dear  husband,  I  know  better  than  you 
can  tell  me  that  there  was  nothing  intention- 
ally dishonest  in  what  you  have  done.  I  know 
you  are  incapable  of  that.  I  think,  too,  that 
you  have  worried  so  much  over  it  that  you 
have  magnified  your  troubles  and  lost  control. 
Try  to  pull  yourself  together.  Those  men 
you  saw  were  not  detectives,  nor  is  it  likely 
that  anyone  is  concerned  about  you  or  your 


3o4  Tragedy 

movements.  Let  us  return  to  New  York. 
You  have  scores  of  friends  who  will  gladly  aid 
you.  I  am  sure  there  will  be  some  way  out  of 
it  if  you  will  only  collect  your  scattered  wits." 

We  went  to  New  York  that  evening.  The 
following  day  I  told  my  troubles  to  a  lawyer 
friend.  He  gave  me  good  counsel.  If  there 
were  no  way  of  replacing  the  bonds,  he  sug- 
gested that  I  go  direct  to  the  bonding  com- 
pany, make  a  clean  breast  of  everything  and 
propose  to  them  that  they  settle  with  the 
courts,  which  they  would  be  required  to  do  if 
I  defaulted,  and  accept  from  me  monthly  pay- 
ments from  my  salary  until  their  claim  was 
fully  satisfied.  What  he  told  me  gave  me 
hope.  That  night  I  awoke  from  a  sound  sleep 
and  the  name  of  a  friend  was  fixed  in  my  mind. 
I  called  to  my  wife,  who  was  asleep  in  an 
adjoining  room,  and  told  her  I  would  try  and 
see  that  friend  as  early  in  the  morning  as  I 
could.  I  did  see  him.  When  I  started  to 
tell  him  of  the  trouble  I  was  in,  he  checked  me. 

"I  don't  care  how  you  got  into  trouble,  just 
tell  me  what  I  have  got  to  do  to  get  you  out 
of  it,"  he  said. 


Tragedy  305 

And  when  I  did,  he  directed  me  to  go  to  his 
bankers  and  the  bonds  would  be  waiting  for 
me.  In  less  than  an  hour  after  I  got  them 
they  were  on  their  way  to  court,  together  with 
my  accounting,  and  my  bondsmen  and  myself 
were  released  from  further  liability.  Only  my 
wife,  the  lawyer  who  counseled  me,  and  the 
friend  who  aided  me,  ever  knew  of  the  peril  I 
was  in.  That  legal  friend  is  now  a  judge  in 
the  New  York  courts.     I  put  him  there. 

Unlike  the  burned  child  who  dreads  the  fire, 
I  didn't  keep  away  from  the  flames  that 
scorched  and  almost  consumed  me.  One 
would  naturally  suppose  that  after  all  I  had 
gone  through  I  would  have  learned  a  lesson 
and  would  never  again  be  drawn  into  the 
whirlpool  of  stock  speculation.  But  the  mi- 
crobe that  had  fastened  in  my  mind  wasn't 
easily  uprooted. 

Speculation  sometimes  becomes  a  mania 
that  should  be  classed  with  insanity.  The 
mischief  is  done  when  the  speculator  begins 
luckily.  If  his  first  ventures  were  disastrous 
he  could  be  easily  cured,  but  when  his  initial 
investment  has  been  followed  by  an  almost 


3o6  Tragedy 

uninterrupted  string  of  profits,  he  begins  to 
imagine  himself  a  wizard  and  no  matter  how 
much  or  how  often  luck  turns  against  him  he 
seldom  stops  until  he  is  ruined.  There  isn't  a 
broker's  office  in  the  financial  district  that 
isn't  haunted  by  white-faced,  careworn  men 
who  were  ruined  by  speculation.  Many  of 
them  were  once  millionaires.  Worst  of  it  is 
they  never  give  up  hope  of  some  day  making 
a  "killing." 

I  stayed  away  for  awhile,  but  a  friend  came 
to  me  with  a  sure  thing  tip  one  day  and  I 
plunged  on  it  with  every  dollar  I  could  borrow. 
And  I  won. 

The  check  that  came  to  me  was  so  munif- 
icent that  I  almost  felt  rich.  Part  of  it  went 
to  creditors,  but  the  greater  share  into  another 
speculative  investment.  Again  I  won  and  I 
kept  on  winning  until  one  day  the  stock  mar- 
ket was  thrown  into  a  wild  panic  by  news  that 
Germany  had  declared  war.  The  bottom 
dropped  out  of  everything  and  the  Stock 
Exchange  was  compelled  to  close. 

That  was  the  last  time  I  ever  speculated. 
I  never  again  had  an  opportunity.     The  ruin 


Tragedy  307 

that  came  to  me  was  even  more  disastrous 
than  the  first.  Everything  I  had  was  swept 
away,  leaving  me  broke  and  twenty  thousand 
dollars  in  debt.     It  was  the  finish. 

The  next  four  years  I  was  in  hell.  Creditors 
harassed  me  day  and  night  and  there  was  no 
way  of  satisfying  them.  They  got  my  salary 
as  fast  as  I  could  earn  it  and  sometimes  much 
faster.  I  borrowed  from  every  friend  who 
would  lend  to  me,  from  Peter  to  pay  Paul  and 
from  Tom  to  pay  Peter,  but  the  strain  was  more 
than  I  could  stand  and  I  cracked  under  it. 

There  came  a  time  when  something  snapped 
in  my  brain. 

I  knew  that  I  was  breaking  down  and  I  felt 
that  it  wouldn't  be  long  before  I  lost  my  mind. 
Came  long  nights  of  sleeplessness,  nights  of 
mental  torment,  nights  when  I  would  awake 
to  hear  "insanity  and  death"  shouted  in  my 
ears.  I  lived  again  the  torture  I  went  through 
that  time  I  was  in  Washington. 

Thoughts  of  suicide  were  always  hammering 
into  my  brain.  All  that  restrained  me  was 
what  it  would  mean  to  my  wife.  If  I  were  to 
carry  out  what  was  ever  present  in  my  mind 


3o8  Tragedy 

she  would  be  a  beggar.  Worse  than  that  there 
would  be  nothing  left  for  her  to  do  but  follow 
after  me  and  in  the  same  way.  It  was  mad- 
dening, for  I  loved  my  wife. 

Once  I  went  alone  to  Maine  ostensibly  to 
fish,  but  with  a  determined  purpose  not  to 
return.  I  had  been  there  the  summer  before 
and  had  been  nearly  upset  in  a  storm  on  the 
lake.  The  thought  came  to  me  that  I  could 
get  caught  out  in  another  storm  and  that  my 
upturned  boat  would  enable  me  to  end  my 
life  without  scandal,  for  it  would  at  least  have 
the  appearance  of  accident.  No  one  could 
possibly  know  that  it  was  premeditated. 

Again  I  cleared  out  my  desk  at  the  office 
and  destroyed  all  of  my  private  papers.  I 
fished  every  day  for  a  week.  Then  came  the 
opportunity  I  was  waiting  for,  a  stormy  day. 
People  at  the  house  where  I  was  stopping 
advised  me  not  to  venture  on  the  lake,  but  I 
laughed  at  their  fears,  and  went,  intending  not 
to  return.  I  had  figured  that  my  life  insur- 
ance would  be  sufficient  to  maintain  my  wife 
for  the  few  years  she  might  survive  me. 

I  went  out  on  the  lake  and  not  until  I  was 


Tragedy  309 

struggling  with  the  waves  did  it  suddenly 
dawn  on  me  that  I  had  come  away  from  New 
York  without  paying  the  premiums  on  two 
of  my  accident  policies.  I  had  carried  the 
insurance  for  twenty  years  and  had  suffered 
the  policies  to  lapse  only  ten  days  before. 
How  I  could  have  forgotten  so  important 
a  matter  is  incomprehensible.  I  knew  the 
companies  would  reinstate  my  policies  as  soon 
as  they  received  the  premiums,  but  it  was  too 
late  then  for  the  urgent  purpose  that  was  in 
my  mind,  for  if  I  attempted  to  send  checks 
from  Maine  and  in  a  few  days  was  "acciden- 
tally drowned,"  the  companies  were  certain 
to  contest  payment. 

All  of  this  flashed  through  my  mind  while  I 
was  out  on  the  lake.  I  pulled  the  boat  back  to 
shore.  I  went  back  to  New  York  that  night. 
I  paid  the  delinquent  premiums  and  waited 
for  sufficient  time  to  elapse. 

Two  months  went  by  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  waking  hour  that  I  wasn't  planning  self- 
effacement,  taxing  my  ingenuity  to  find  a 
way  that  would  make  it  appear  to  have  been 
an  accident.     The  more  I  thought  about  it 


310  Tragedy 

the  less  plausible  it  seemed.  If  I  were  drowned 
while  bathing,  it  might  at  first  be  reported 
as  accidental,  but  my  experience  with  such 
matters  convinced  me  that  my  plan  was 
impossible,  for  the  insurance  investigators 
would  be  certain  to  find  out  how  hopelessly 
involved  I  was  and  there  would  be  sufficient 
grounds  to  contest  payment  of  my  policies. 
Creditors  grew  more  and  more  importunate. 
I  had  exhausted  every  expedient  I  could  think 
of  and  knew  that  I  could  no  longer  stave  off 
legal  proceedings.  Lawsuits  and  exposure 
meant  the  loss  of  my  position.  I  was  against 
a  stone  wall. 

The  climax  came  in  the  middle  of  Septem- 
ber, 191 8.  A  bank  refused  to  renew  my  note, 
another  bank  notified  me  that  I  had  over- 
drawn my  account,  two  creditors  sent  word 
that  my  checks  had  been  returned  to  them 
unpaid,  and  other  creditors  served  notice  that 
they  would  immediately  take  action  to  gar- 
nishee my  salary.     All  this  in  a  single  day. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  It  meant 
a  respite  of  twenty-four  hours.  After  that, 
abysmal  ruin.     Nothing  could  save  me. 


Tragedy  311 

If  I  were  alive  on  Monday  morning  there 
would  be  a  pack  of  sheriff's  officers  and  pro- 
cess servers  waiting  at  my  office.  I  would  be 
turned  out  of  my  hotel  and  all  of  my  belong- 
ings would  be  seized.  Probably  I  would  be 
arrested  for  overdrawing  my  account.  I  lay 
awake  all  night  thinking  about  it.  What  a 
wretched  end! 

Early  Sunday  morning  my  wife  and  I 
started  for  the  seashore.  A  block  from  our 
hotel  a  little  old  woman  in  a  faded  black  dress, 
her  face  pinched  with  suffering  and  privation, 
stretched  out  a  trembling  hand  and  I  dropped 
a  coin  in  it, 

"  Oh,  God !  I  wonder  if  I  will  ever  come  to 
that,"  my  wife  said. 

I  don't  suppose  she  meant  it.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  predicament  I  was  in,  though 
she  may  have  intuitively  suspected  that  I  was 
worried  about  money  matters. 

But  what  she  said  cut  into  my  heart  like  a 
knife  stab.  I  knew  that  within  a  few  hours 
she  would  be  almost  as  friendless  and  helpless 
as  that  poor  creature. 

On  the  beach  at  Brighton  all  that  afternoon 


312  Tragedy 

I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  little  old 
beggar  woman.  Her  face  would  fade  from 
the  picture  and  my  wife's  face  would  come  and, 
I  would  see  her,  sick  and  trembling  and  wan 
and  feeble,  stretching  out  her  hand  to  a  chance 
passer-by.  It  burned  into  my  brain  like  fire. 
There  was  only  one  way  I  could  save  her 
from  such  a  fate. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  "Lifer'*  in  Sing  Sing 

The  amazing  part  of  my  story  is  that  I  am 
alive  to  relate  it.  I  have  often  asked  myself 
how  it  happened  that  I  did  not  finish  what  I 
set  out  to  do,  and  I  am  sure  that  this  thought 
must  have  been  even  more  puzzling  to  my 
friends  and  probably  to  nearly  all  who  read 
this.  Some  considerate  persons  have  tried  to 
convince  me  that  God  had  a  purpose  in  pro- 
longing my  life,  but  I  wonder  what  the  purpose 
could  be,  other  than  to  give  me  opportunity 
for  repentance.  Life  seems  so  bleak  and  use- 
less when  one  is  in  prison. 

It  has  been  said  by  others  that  after  taking 
the  life  of  my  wife  I  lacked  the  fortitude  to  kill 
myself.  The  assumption  is  justifiable,  but  it  is 
untrue.  With  nothing  left  to  live  for,  it  was  easy 
to  die.  It  required  far  greater  courage  vol- 
untarily to  walk  into  a  police  station  and  deliver 

313 


314         A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

myself  into  custody,  knowing  what  it  would 
mean  to  me  and  what  I  must  go  through  when 
once  I  was  made  a  prisoner.  There  were  two 
loaded  revolvers  in  my  pocket.  I  had  but  to 
press  the  trigger  of  one  and  in  the  fraction 
of  a  second  I  would  be  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  punishment. 

When  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  police  I 
realized  as  vividly  as  I  ever  realized  any  act  of 
my  life,  that  I  would  be  put  in  prison,  placed 
on  trial  and  convicted,  and  that  I  would  have 
to  go  through  the  ordeal  of  ignominious  death 
by  legal  execution.  The  thought  that  I  might 
escape  the  electric  chair  and  spend  the  remain- 
der of  my  life  in  prison,  never  came  to  me.  I 
believed  when  I  walked  into  the  police  station 
that  but  little  time  would  elapse  before  I  would 
be  put  to  death.  Had  I  thought  otherwise,  I 
would  surely  have  chosen  the  easier  way. 

Whatever  my  mental  condition  may  have 
been  a  few  hours  earlier,  my  mind  at  this  time 
was  perfectly  clear.  I  had  come  to  myself 
and  I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  At  the  time  of 
the  tragedy  I  had  scarcely  slept  for  more  than 
a  week.     My  nerves  were  unstrung  and  there 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         315 

was  a  prickling  sensation  as  if  my  brain  was 
being  tortured  with  red  hot  needles.  I  felt 
that  I  was  going  mad  and  I  was  fearful  that 
insanity  might  so  twist  my  brain  that  I  would 
be  unable  to  carry  out  what  I  had  planned  to 
do.  What  if  I  became  insane  and  killed 
myself  and  left  my  wife  alone  in  the  world, 
without  relatives  or  friends,  to  suffer  and 
starve,  after  all  her  loving  devotion  through 
our  long  married  life.  This  thought  was  a 
constant  torment.  I  wonder  now  how  I  ever 
remained  sane. 

My  wife  never  knew  that  the  man  she  loved 
killed  her.  She  died  while  peacefully  asleep. 
That  is  all  the  consolation  I  shall  ever  have 
and  it  makes  easier  to  bear  what  I  must  face 
as  long  as  I  live.  It  would  have  been  horrible 
if  she  had  known. 

Had  death  come  to  her  instantly,  I  would 
now  be  lying  by  her  side  in  Glenwood  Ceme- 
tery at  Washington.  She  lingered  for  two 
hours,  unconscious  and  without  pain.  Had  I 
killed  myself  while  she  were  yet  alive  and  she 
had  survived,  all  that  I  sacrificed  to  save  her 
from  penury  and  want  would  have  been  in 


3i6        A  "Lifer'' in  Sing  Sing 

vain.  I  did  not  dare  end  my  own  life  while 
she  breathed.  So  I  knelt  by  her  side,  her 
hand  in  mine,  and  prayed  that  God  would 
understand  and  forgive.  When  her  life  flut- 
tered and  went  out,  there  came  to  me  a  strange 
exaltation  and  with  it  all  the  worries  that  had 
been  tormenting  me  faded  into  nothingness. 
I  had  nothing  more  to  worry  about.  No  harm 
could  ever  befall  her.  Then  my  brain  went 
dead. 

What  happened  immediately  afterward  I 
but  dimly  remember.  I  have  tried  to  piece 
together  what  I  did  throughout  that  day  and 
all  of  the  night  but  it  is  like  trying  to  gather 
the  elusive  threads  of  a  fast-fading  dream. 
I  left  our  hotel  to  go  into  Central  Park  and 
finish  there  what  was  in  my  mind  to  do. 

Then  came  delusions.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  no  matter  where  I  went  there  were  hun- 
dreds of  outstretched  hands  waiting  to  snatch 
my  weapon  and  prevent  me  from  carrying  out 
my  purpose.  I  now  realize  that  these  fancies 
were  vagaries  of  an  overwrought  brain.  I 
grew  numb,  insensate.  All  day  and  all  night 
I  rode  about  the  city  oii  elevated  trains  and  in 


A  " Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         317 

the  subways.  1  went  over  to  Brooklyn  and 
sat  for  hours  in  Prospect  Park,  waiting  for  the 
crowds  that  seemed  to  surround  me  to  go 
away  and  give  me  a  chance  to  die.  In  the 
blackness  of  the  night  I  found  myself  trying 
to  get  into  Bronx  Park.  It  was  raining  and  at 
the  sound  of  a  footstep  I  fled  in  terror,  lest  a 
policeman  seize  me  and  take  away  my  weap- 
ons. No  thought  of  arrest  for  what  I  had 
done  came  to  me.  I  thought  only  that  an 
encounter  with  a  policeman  would  result  in 
the  loss  of  my  two  revolvers  and  that  I  should 
then  be  without  the  means  of  destroying  my 
life. 

Throughout  the  night  I  rode  up  and  down  in 
the  subway,  from  end  to  end  and  back  again, 
crouched  in  a  seat  at  the  end  of  a  car.  I 
fancied  myself  dead  and  that  it  was  the  shell 
of  what  once  was  me  that  sat  so  silent  and  still 
in  a  subway  train.  It  was  as  if  I  were  in  a 
trance.  My  hands  were  like  lumps  of  ice. 
The  blood  in  my  body  seemed  frozen.  For 
hours  I  couldn't  even  think.  I  had  no  sen- 
sation of  thirst  or  hunger.  I  just  rode  on  and 
on  like  a  dead  man  might. 


318        A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

In  the  early  morning  I  got  off  at  a  station 
and  went  to  a  lavatory.  A  boy  was  opening 
a  bundle  of  papers  when  I  came  out.  I  bought 
one  and  got  on  a  train  to  go  to  my  office,  just 
as  I  had  done  every  morning  at  that  hour  for 
more  than  twenty  years.  I  read  all  of  the  war 
news  on  the  front  page.  When  I  turned  to 
the  inside  a  headline  glared  at  me.  My  eyes 
were  fascinated  with  the  horror  it  told.  In 
black  type  at  the  top  of  the  page  was : 

"Charles  Chapin  Wanted  for  Murder!" 

Then  it  all  came  back.  I  wasn't  dead ;  I  was 
alive  and  was  wanted  by  the  police  for  murder! 
How  many  headlines  like  that  I  had  written 
in  my  forty  years  as  a  newspaper  man!  And 
now  it  was  me  who  was  wanted  for  murder.  I 
got  off  the  train  at  the  next  stop  and  made  for 
the  nearest  police  station.  A  voice  within 
kept  urging  me  to  kill  myself  while  oppor- 
tunity remained,  but  I  deliberately  walked 
to  the  station  house,  placed  my  two  revolvers 
before  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  officer  in 
charge  and  told  him  my  name  and  why  I  was 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         319 

there.  He  looked  at  me  as  though  he  thought 
I  was  crazy. 

An  hour  later,  at  Police  Headquarters,  I 
made  as  complete  a  statement  as  my  shattered 
nerves  would  permit  to  an  assistant  district 
attorney  and  a  group  of  police  officials.  They 
warned  me  that  anything  I  told  them  might  be 
used  against  me  in  court,  but  I  had  nothing  to 
withhold  and  no  defense  to  offer  for  what  I  had 
done.  I  was  ready  to  receive  the  punishment 
the  law  demands  and  told  them  so.  I  was 
never  more  unafraid  in  my  life.  Before  night 
I  was  in  a  cell  in  the  Tombs,  a  watchful  guard 
at  the  barred  door  to  prevent  me  from  cheat- 
ing the  executioner.  A  bright  light  was  kept 
shining  on  me  throughout  the  night,  for  I  was 
under  "observation"  in  "Murderers'  Row." 

Many  lawyers  called  next  day  to  tender 
their  services.  Some  were  old  friends  and  they 
generously  offered  me  financial  aid  as  well  as 
legal.  I  wanted  nothing  of  them  and  told 
them  so.  I  wanted  only  to  be  left  alone  and  to 
let  the  law  finish  me  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Hundreds  of  letters  and  telegrams  came. 
Many  asked  why  I  had  not  let  them  know  of 


320        A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

my  financial  difficulties.  "I  would  gladly 
have  paid  your  debts  twice  over  had  you  come 
to  me,"  I  read  in  some  of  the  letters.  The 
offers  came  too  late,  for  the  one  worth  saving 
was  beyond  human  aid  and  I  was  a  murderer. 

When  I  was  arraigned  in  court  I  asked  the 
District  Attorney  if  he  would  obtain  consent 
for  me  to  attend  my  wife's  funeral,  pledging  in 
return  for  this  one  favor  that  I  would  waive  all 
formalities  of  trial  and  save  the  State  from 
further  expense  in  expediting  my  execution. 

It  may  seem  strange,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
a  newspaper  man  is  supposed  to  know  about 
such  things,  that  I  was  unaware  that  a  prisoner 
charged  with  a  capital  offense  is  not  permitted 
to  plead  guilty.  Whether  he  wishes  to  or  not, 
a  plea  of  "not  guilty"  must  be  arbitrarily 
entered  and  it  is  then  incumbent  upon  the 
prosecuting  attorney  to  prove  him  guilty. 
Could  I  have  had  my  way,  there  would  have 
been  nothing  to  do  in  disposing  of  my  case  but 
to  sentence  me.  The  executioner  would  have 
attended  to  the  rest. 

When  a  plea  to  the  indictment  had  been 
entered  and  I  was  remanded  to  the  Tombs,  a 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         321 

newspaper  friend  brought  Abe  Levy  to  see  me. 
I  had  known  him  for  twenty  years  as  one  of 
the  ablest  criminal  lawyers  in  New  York  and  he 
and  I  had  had  many  a  wordy  scrap  when  he 
fancied  that  something  our  paper  printed  was 
detrimental  to  his  client,  for  Levy  is  a  zealous 
champion  of  every  man  whose  defense  he 
undertakes.  I  explained  to  him  that  I  had  no 
means  to  employ  counsel  and  that  I  wished  for 
none,  as  I  had  no  intention  of  making  any 
defense  when  my  case  was  called  for  trial.  I 
further  told  him  that  after  the  prosecution 
presented  a  prima  facie  case  against  me,  which 
would  occupy  but  a  few  minutes,  I  expected  to 
announce  to  the  court  that  I  had  no  witnesses 
in  my  behalf  and  no  defense  to  offer. 

"And  then  what.?'*  asked  the  lawyer. 

"The  judge  will  sentence  me  and  my 
troubles  will  soon  be  over." 

"And  do  you  think  there  is  a  judge  in  our 
Criminal  Courts  who  would  permit  you  to  do 
such  a  thing  ?  If  there  is,  the  Court  of  Appeals 
would  surely  not  tolerate  it.  Now,  you  do 
need  a  lawyer  and  you  need  one  very  much, 
and  at  the  request  of  many  of  your  friends  I  am 


322         A  " Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

going  to  act  in  your  behalf,  not  for  any  fee, 
however,  for  1  want  none.  I  look  upon  it 
as  a  sacred  duty  to  save  you  from  yourself.'* 
I  was  much  distressed  the  following  day  to 
learn  that  my  counsel  had  appeared  in  court 
to  ask  for  the  appointment  of  a  commission 
to  inquire  into  my  sanity,  although  I  was  much 
gratified  when  told  that  Justice  Malone  had 
appointed  three  men  of  the  highest  integrity 
to  preside  at  the  hearing.  They  were  George 
W.  Wickersham,  formerly  United  States 
Attorney  General;  Lamar  Hardy,  Corporation 
Counsel  of  New  York  during  the  adminis- 
tration of  Mayor  John  Purroy  Mitchel;  and 
Dr.  Jelliffe,  a  famous  specialist  in  mental 
diseases.  I  knew  that  these  men  would  not 
permit  me  to  be  railroaded  to  an  asylum  for 
the  insane.  I  further  realized  that  no  matter 
which  way  they  reported  to  the  court,  their 
finding  would  be  above  criticism.  I  shall 
always  feel  grateful  to  these  important  men 
who  gave  up  their  valuable  time  and  listened 
so  patiently  to  the  great  mass  of  testimony 
that  was  presented  by  my  indefatigable 
counsel. 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         323 

I  sat  a  silent  spectator  at  the  sessions  of  the 
Commission  and  attentively  listened  to  well- 
meaning  friends  and  my  former  office  associ- 
ates testify  to  everything  they  could  conjure 
from  their  resourceful  memories  that  would 
help  to  prove  me  irresponsible.  Every  little 
act  of  mine  that  could  in  any  way  be  twisted 
into  an  indication  of  an  insane  mind  was  dug 
up  and  elaborated,  until  they  got  me  to  won- 
dering whether  I  was  a  moral  idiot,  a  paranoiac, 
or  just  an  ordinary  unclassified  lunatic. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  in  all  my  life  I  had 
never  heard  so  much  unconscious  perjury. 
One  reporter  interpreted  as  an  indication  of  a 
deranged  mind  that  many  of  his  political  items 
went  into  my  waste  basket.  Another  that  I 
would  rush  to  a  telephone  booth  while  he  was 
conversing  with  me.  I  didn't  explain  that  I 
went  into  a  telephone  booth  because  there  was 
an  irate  creditor  on  the  wire  and  that  I  did  not 
wish  others  in  the  office  to  hear  what  I  said  to 
him.  A  cub  reporter  was  sure  that  I  was  crazy 
because  I  gave  him  tickets  to  a  banquet  and 
told  him  to  go  there  and  enjoy  himself,  but 
only  as  a  guest,  as  another  reporter  had  been 


324         A  ''Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

assigned  to  write  about  it.  Four  famous 
specialists  told  of  interviewing  me  in  the 
Tombs  on  several  occasions  and  of  their 
explorations  into  my  anatomy  in  search  of 
bugs.  One  took  as  an  indication  of  paresis 
that  I  joked  with  him  and  smoked  a  cigar 
while  he  bored  into  my  spinal  column  and 
drew  from  it  two  tubes  of  fluid  for  laboratory 
analysis. 

There  was  a  doctor  in  the  Tombs  who  is 
supposed  to  minister  to  sick  prisoners.  He 
came  to  my  cell  and  tried  to  win  my  confidence 
by  telling  how  he  had  hurried  back  from  his 
vacation  when  he  learned  that  I  was  there  and 
in  need  of  medical  attention.  He  bobbed  up 
at  the  hearing  as  a  witness.  I  heard  him 
proclaim  himself  an  insanity  expert  and  I 
thought  I  detected  a  smile  of  derision  on  the 
countenance  of  Dr.  Jelliffe,  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  of  insanity  experts,  and  if  I  read  his 
thoughts  aright  he  was  mentally  exclaiming, 
"You  poor  fish!"  To  the  astonishment  of 
everyone  present  and  plainly  to  the  disgust  of 
the  three  gentlemen  who  were  presiding,  the 
doctor  drew  from  his   pocket  a  voluminous 


A  ^'Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         325 

manuscript  which  purported  to  contain  a  re- 
port of  every  word  that  had  passed  between 
himself  and  me  during  the  many  visits  he  had 
made  to  my  cell  in  his  capacity  of  physician. 
I  had  always  talked  freely  with  him.  It  now 
developed  that  every  time  he  talked  with  me 
he  went  straight  to  his  office  and  wrote  out  for 
the  District  Attorney's  use  all  he  could  recall 
of  our  conversation.  He  had  a  treacherous 
memory.  What  he  failed  to  remember  he 
filled  in  from  imagination.  For  this  service  he 
earned  an  extra  fee  of  fifty  dollars. 

When  he  had  finished  reading  his  manu- 
script he  passed  it  over  to  the  District  Attor- 
ney and  it  was  put  in  a  portfolio  with  other 
papers.  Confessedly,  the  doctor  was  less  of  a 
physician  than  he  was  "stool  pigeon"  for  the 
District  Attorney.  There  was  nothing  that  he 
could  testify  to  that  could  harm  me,  for  I  was 
beyond  any  harm  he  could  do  and,  besides,  I 
courted  the  worst  that  could  possibly  befall 
me.  But  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  the 
incalculable  injury  he  may  do  to  others  by 
prostituting  his  calling  as  he  did  in  my  case. 
Dr.  Jelliffe  took  him  in  hand  after  the  manu- 


326        A  "  Lifer  "  in  Sing  Sing 

script  had  been  read  and  interpolated  with 
theories  and  opinions,  and  what  he  didn't  do 
to  him  in  the  way  of  showing  up  his  ignorance 
and  bumptious  pretension,  was  because  Dr. 
JeUiffe  grew  tired  of  his  own  ruthlessness. 

The  witness  who  most  interested  me  was 
Katie.  She  testified  that  she  had  been  my 
wife's  personal  maid  for  eighteen  years  and  in 
all  that  time  she  could  not  recall  having  heard 
me  utter  so  much  as  a  cross  word.  "  He  was 
her  constant  and  devoted  companion,"  said 
Katie,  "more  like  a  lover  than  a  husband." 
Katie  said  a  lot  of  nice  things  about  me  and  so 
did  the  intimate  women  friends  of  my  wife. 
Their  testimony  convinced  everyone  present 
that  there  was  no  motive  connected  with  the 
tragedy  other  than  was  shown  in  my  own  frank 
statement. 

The  hearing  dragged  along  for  nearly  four 
months.  Sometimes  there  would  be  an  inter- 
ruption for  several  weeks,  because  of  the  illness 
of  someone,  or  some  other  would  be  impor- 
tantly engaged  elsewhere.  Nearly  a  thousand 
pages  of  typewritten  testimony  were  taken. 
I  was  on  the  witness  stand  for  seven  hours, 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         327 

telling  as  connectedly  as  I  could  all  of  the 
circumstances  that  led  up  to  the  tragedy.  I 
made  no  attempt  to  justify  my  act  or  to  give 
my  hearers  the  impression  that  I  was  in  any 
way  irresponsible.  On  the  contrary,  I  did 
everything  I  could  to  defeat  what  my  able  and 
resourceful  counsel  was  so  ingeniously  trying 
to  accomplish.  And  I  succeeded.  When  I 
had  finished  telling  my  story  the  District 
Attorney  was  so  well  satisfied  that  out  of  my 
own  mouth  I  had  proven  my  sanity  that  he 
announced  that  he  would  call  no  witnesses. 
He  didn't  even  review  the  testimony  that  had 
been  given  or  address  the  Commission.  Mr. 
Wickersham  personally  wrote  the  report  of  the 
Commission,  which  I  was  afterward  privileged 
to  read.  It  was  an  ably  constructed  docu- 
ment of  nearly  forty  pages  and  summed  up  my 
case  with  remarkably  clear  understanding.  It 
was  fair,  logical  and  not  without  sympathy. 
I  marvel  that  anyone  could  have  come  so  close 
to  my  own  appraisal  of  what  I  did.  The 
finding  declared  me  legally  responsible.  Dr. 
Jelliffe  injected  into  it  an  inference  that 
although  legally  sane  I  was  medically  insane, 


328        A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

a  distinction  without  much  difference.  These 
dear  old  doctors,  bless  their  souls,  whenever 
they  delve  profoundly  into  psychiatry,  get  so 
they  "kid"  themselves  into  believing  that 
almost  everyone  except  themselves  is  a 
"bug." 

I  recall  one  question  that  Mr.  Wickersham 
put  to  me  while  I  was  testifying  that  perplexed 
me  beyond  reply.  It  was:  "You  believe  in 
God  and  in  His  watchful  care  and  mercy.  If 
you  had  killed  yourself  and  not  your  wife, 
haven't  you  enough  faith  to  believe  that  God 
would  have  looked  after  your  wife  and  pro- 
vided for  her  wants.?" 

When  the  question  was  asked  there  flashed 
through  my  mind  the  vivid  picture  of  the  little 
old  woman  in  black  who  tremblingly  stretched 
out  her  hand  for  alms  that  last  Sunday  morn- 
ing when  my  wife  and  I  were  starting  for 
Brighton  Beach.  No  doubt  she  had  faith  in 
God  and  often  went  on  her  knees  to  Him  for 
help  and  strength,  yet  there  she  was  in  her  dire 
extremity  of  keeping  body  and  soul  together, 
a  poor  little  beggar  in  the  streets  of  a  cold 
and    pitiless    city.     Truly,    the    inscrutable 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         329 

working  of  the  Divine  mind  is  beyond  human 
comprehension. 

I  falteringly  attempted  to  reply  to  Mr. 
Wickersham,  but  grew  confused  lest  I  be  mis- 
understood and  simply  told  him  it  was  the 
only  question  for  which  I  was  unable  to  frame 
an  answer.  I  believe  he  understood  what  was 
in  my  mind. 

A  day  was  set  for  my  trial  and  Justice  Bar- 
tow S.  Weeks  of  the  Supreme  Court  was  chosen 
to  preside.  Just  a  week  before  the  trial  was 
to  begin,  Lawyer  Levy  came  to  see  me  in  the 
Tombs,  accompanied  by  one  of  my  friends. 
It  was  his  first  visit  since  the  day,  four  months 
before,  that  he  applied  for  a  commission  to 
inquire  into  my  sanity.  All  through  the 
hearing  almost  the  only  words  exchanged 
between  us  were  when  I  asked  about  his  son, 
sick  with  a  fever  at  one  of  the  army  encamp- 
ments. All  feeling  of  resentment  had  long 
since  been  merged  in  the  admiration  I  felt  for 
the  lawyer  when  I  watched  his  masterly 
method  of  piecing  together  testimony  to  sup- 
port his  theory.  His  shining  bald  pate  con- 
ceals a  magnificent  intellect. 


330         A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing 

Mr.  Levy  informed  me  that  he  had  just 
come  from  the  District  Attorney.  The  latter 
had  sent  for  him,  he  said,  and  had  told  him 
that  the  complete  testimony  taken  during  my 
insanity  hearing  had  been  submitted  to  five 
Supreme  Court  judges  and  that  after  going  over 
it  they  had  given  a  unanimous  opinion  that  I 
could  not  be  convicted  of  first  degree  murder. 
The  District  Attorney  had  proposed  that  I 
consent  to  plead  guilty  to  a  lesser  degree, 
saving  myself  from  a  trying  ordeal  and  the 
State  from  the  expense  of  a  trial  by  jury. 

"  I  promptly  told  the  District  Attorney  that 
I  would  agree  to  nothing  in  the  way  of  com- 
promise," declared  Mr.  Levy,  "and  I  further 
told  him  that  I  am  confident  of  acquitting  you 
at  the  final  trial  of  your  case.  But,  after  a 
conference  with  some  of  your  friends,  they 
have  asked  me  to  explain  what  you  will  prob- 
ably have  to  go  through  if  you  are  placed  on 
trial.  I  am  reasonably  certain  that  no  jury 
would  ever  convict  you,  but  it  is  very  doubtful 
if  twelve  men  could  agree  on  a  verdict.  This 
would  mean  another  trial,  with  perhaps  the 
same  result,  and  the  trials  that  would  follow 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         331 

would  perhaps  run  through  more  than  a  year, 
possibly  two  or  three  years.  If  the  jury 
should  agree  and  found  you  guilty,  it  would  be 
at  least  a  year  before  the  Court  of  Appeals 
could  act  upon  it,  and  if  a  new  trial  was 
ordered  many  months  more  would  probably 
elapse  before  it  could  be  reached.  All  this 
time  you  would  be  confined  and  closely 
guarded  in  the  Tombs  or  in  the  condemned 
cells  at  Sing  Sing.  The  case  might  drag  along 
for  several  years  and  in  the  end,  unless  there 
was  an  acquittal,  we  would  be  back  to  where 
we  are  to-day.  Your  friends  insist  that  you 
have  not  the  physical  strength  to  stand  such 
an  ordeal.  I  will  not  attempt  to  advise  you 
what  course  we  shall  pursue.  You  must  now 
decide  that  for  yourself." 

It  was  appalling  the  way  he  described  it. 
I  already  had  spent  four  months  in  the  dread- 
ful Tombs,  surrounded  by  vicious  and 
depraved  men.  I  witnessed  and  heard  things 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold.  The  horror 
of  it  no  pen  can  describe.  Dante's  conception 
of  hell  made  of  it  a  paradise  as  compared  with 
the  iniquities  of  that  bedlam  of  a  prison.     I 


332        A  "  Lifer  "  in  Sing  Sing 

realized  that  if  I  had  to  endure  it  much  longer 
a  commission  wouldn't  need  to  waste  much 
time  in  finding  me  stark  mad.  God,  what  a 
hole  to  stick  men  in! 

To  Mr.  Levy,  I  replied:  "Let  me  make  clear 
to  you  that  I  have  no  wish  to  dodge  my  fullest 
responsibility  to  the  law  for  what  I  have  done. 
My  desire  is  for  the  quickest  possible  finality. 
I  feel  now,  as  I  have  from  the  day  I  came  here, 
that  I  can  go  to  the  execution  chamber  with- 
out fear.  If  the  choice  is  left  to  me  I  would 
prefer  the  electric  chair  to  imprisonment. 
But  I  am  not  unmindful  of  all  that  you  and 
my  friends  are  doing  for  me,  and  I  am  greatly 
distressed  at  what  it  all  means  to  the  news- 
papers with  which  I  was  associated  for  so 
many  years.  If  what  the  District  Attorney 
has  said  about  not  being  able  to  convict  me  is 
true,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  his  sincer- 
ity, I  am  willing  to  do  as  he  suggests,  providing 
that  it  is  made  clear  in  open  court  that  my  plea 
of  guilty  to  the  lesser  degree  is  offered  only 
to  save  further  trouble  and  expense,  and 
because  the  District  Attorney  is  convinced 
that  I  cannot  be  convicted  of  the  crime  for 


A  "Lifer"  in  Sing  Sing         333 

which  I  am  indicted.  A  Hfe  sentence  to  State 
Prison  at  my  age  is  to  be  preferred  to  even  one 
year  in  the  Tombs." 

The  following  morning  I  went  before  Justice 
Weeks,  accompanied  by  Sheriff  Knott,  and 
was  sentenced  to  serve  at  hard  labor  not  less 
than  twenty  years  or  more  than  natural  life. 
The  entire  proceeding  that  terminated  for- 
ever my  activity  in  the  world  outside  of  prison 
walls  was  over  in  three  minutes  and  a  few  days 
later  I  was  brought  to  Sing  Sing. 

For  many  months  after  I  put  on  the  gray 
garb  of  a  felon,  I  was  so  ill  and  dazed  that 
much  of  the  time  I  could  scarcely  realize  my 
surroundings.  I  wanted  to  crawl  out  of  sight 
of  everyone  and  cry.  And  there  was  the  almost 
constant  dread  that  I  would  soon  break  down 
completely  and  be  transported  to  that  far 
away  asylum  in  the  mountains  of  the  North 
for  the  criminal  insane. 

Gradually  the  nervousness  and  apprehen- 
sion wore  away  and  my  health  began  to 
improve.  Fear  of  insanity  has  now  almost 
entirely  left  me.  I  have  been  treated  with 
great  kindness  and  consideration,  not  only  by 


334         A  "  Lifer  "  in  Sing  Sing 

prison  officials  but  by  my  associates  in  gray. 
My  closest  friends  of  bygone  days  could  not 
have  been  more  kind  than  these  unfortunate 
men  who  are  serving  long  sentences  of 
imprisonment.  There  is  so  much  good  in  the 
worst  of  them,  so  much  sympathy  and  genero- 
sity among  them  all.  I  expect  to  be  here  as 
long  as  I  may  live  and  I  am  trying  to  serve 
God  and  be  helpful  to  my  fellow  men  as  best 
I  can.  The  past  is  behind  me.  What  I  have 
done  I  cannot  undo.  I  give  no  thought  to 
what  may  come.  The  yesterdays  are  gone, 
the  to-morrows  will  take  care  of  themselves.  I 
try  to  get  as  much  as  I  possibly  can  out  of 
each  day  as  I  live  it. 

Almost  two  years  have  passed.  In  the 
solitude  of  my  cell  I  have  subjected  myself 
to  a  more  searching  examination  than  the 
most  analytical  prosecutor  could  put  me 
through,  and  the  verdict  that  is  firmly  fixed 
in  my  mind  is  that  I  did  the  only  thing  that 
was  left  me  to  do.  There  was  no  other  way  of 
saving  my  wife. 


DATE  DUE 

i 

1 

! 

CAVLORD 

rHINTtOIN  u   s    « 

^  ; 


SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L'3'i*J,|,f.^,{li|y,i|, 


A    000  752  824     3 
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